


Into Thin Air

by loveandwarandmagick



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chaptered, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, LWM, M/M, Magic, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Pining, Slow Burn, SnowBaz, WHY DID I TAG MINOR INJURIES HE HAS A WHOLE BROKEN LEG, Work In Progress, criminal overuse of italics, i'm not british nor have i written in the third person before, idiots to lovers, loveandwarandmagickfic, please don't crucify me folks, simon can kinda use his magic !, vampire baz ? never heard of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2020-06-24 13:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandwarandmagick/pseuds/loveandwarandmagick
Summary: Simon Salisbury has been wanted for thievery in Watford for years, and no one's ever managed to catch him. Enter Baz Pitch, a detective with a more extensive background that anyone knows. Both of them have their own stories, but magic is what intertwines them.It's also the thing that gets them in this mess in the first place, and now they've got to get out of it. Things get more complicated as they reveal the things that make them human, and their common threads get a bit more tied together.A story of an unfortunate road trip that neither of them wants to go on, lots of magic, and a red wagon.





	1. Chapter 1

**\- One Year Before -**

**_Simon_ **

  
The Watford Market is extremely crowded. Simon is noticing this as he shuffles through the crowd, his pockets jingling with the heavy weight of shiny bracelets, coin purses, and every other treasure he manages to snag. It’s not unusual for the crowd to be so dense, but it’s rare that people are so unsuspicious of the clumsy boy who keeps stumbling about. Every so often, he’ll trip over his feet again, dipping his fingers into their pockets in the process. But naturally, they’re all unaware, thrown off by the disarming smile that he’ll throw their way. He’s been told that he’s got a charming smile – well, only by Penny – but he doesn’t believe it. His smile nearly splits his face in half with how wide it is and makes his eyes narrow and well up with tears.

  
_“But that’s only happiness, Simon. Everyone looks great when they’re happy, even if they are ugly.”_

  
He learned a long time ago not to start arguments with Penny unless he plans to sit for a _long_ time. The first time he’d tried disagreeing with her on a point she’d made, they ended up being kicked out of the café they frequent for loitering. Had he been up to it though, he would’ve said then that a smile isn’t always happy, but that would’ve just led to the pity staring and another one of the tightest hugs that Simon’s ever received. Which would result in the two worst outcomes of visiting Penny; pity or having to endure one of her lengthy speeches. He doesn’t have time to be pitied or to sit through an hour of her tight voice disagreeing with every point that Simon can articulate, and so he doesn’t bother.

  
He’ll agree that happiness looks good on everyone (she’s not wrong on that one) and again agree, albeit reluctantly, that his smile is charming. And if Penny, who is almost always correct thinks so, he might as well use it to his advantage.

  
_“So sorry,”_ he’ll apologize, smiling broadly – and charmingly, he’ll think begrudgingly - until whoever he's thrown himself into begins to smile back shyly and turn away. _“I’ve been told that I’m awfully clumsy.”_

  
The sheer volume of the things bulging from both his coat pockets is starting to weigh him down a bit and he’s beginning to think that he should turn down the stumbling a notch. After all, he has plans for tonight (besides meeting Penny for tea in the evening,) and he can’t be worried about dropping his goodies in someone’s home.

  
Sighing, he breaks away from the crowd, ignoring the ache in his gut that is only slightly more guilt than hunger. It’s still a pressing need though - to eat. If he’s not full, he’s empty, running on the pangs of an aching stomach. He shakes his head, shakes away the pressing feeling on his gut, and catches the eyes of a pretty blonde woman swathed in the light of the sun.  
She’s practically shimmering, in a clean set of swirling, white silks. Her pale yellow hair is only slightly darker than the shade, but her smile matches the pearly white to a tee. A smile which she’s currently aiming at Simon. He takes it as an invitation to make his way over, pushing through the crowd and mumbling half-hearted apologies, barely taking his eyes off of her.  
He smiles back then when he’s only a few feet in front of her stand. His eyes catch on all the silvery bracelets on the table, then move up to focus on the scarf adorning her neck. He notices then that the fabric isn’t white at all. It’s an iridescent shade, the lightest hues of every color in the rainbow.

  
Pretty enough to be sold instead of pawned, if Simon can devise a way of distracting her long enough to pull it away from her shoulders. He takes a few steps forward, pausing right before the edge of the booth. Dragging his fingers through his curls as deliberately as he can. He does this with every stranger who takes a second glance at him or holds his eyes for a moment too long.  
He takes the time to stretch out a bit, but it’s more time to let his mind race, really. He’ll wait for a second to reign in the first chaotic whirlwind of worry before he gets any closer. Then another to let her notice the broad frame of his shoulders or the way he’s finally filled in his clothing.

  
Just in case she’s caught a glimpse of one of the many, many posters pinned up on nearly every street corner, advertising a “negotiated reward,” for whoever could find and capture the bony little nightmare who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. In case she’s smiling to herself, thinking of that reward and her chance to get off the street.

  
She doesn’t look like she’s very concerned about money, if her jewelry is anything to go by. (He’s grown adjusted to noticing people’s material items before their faces; it’s impossible for him not to notice the shiny beads adorning the length of her wrist.) Still, he presses closer, finding confidence in the fact that he doesn’t resemble his current self at all, minus the eyes.  
Surely by now, the people should have updated the rough sketch of his fourteen-year-old self, yet they haven’t. Everything about the boy that they’ve drawn looks tired – like he’s barely able to lift his head. He’s too wiry and they’ve drawn him without a single freckle when Simon’s got a million. But they hadn’t, and he doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for them or to laugh at his fortune.  


Either way, he makes sure to draw himself up to full height, push on his bronze curls, and clench his jaw tightly. He showcases his broad shoulders with tight t-shirts and makes sure to wear his ruby ring on his pinky, the only finger it fits on.

  
_Look at me. I’m not that boy._ He breathes in and out, once, then twice.

  
Just in case she’s lulling him with her gorgeous smile, charming him with the swirl of her shiny, rainbow clothes. Just in case she’s going to take him down too. She’ll recognize his eyes (that’s what Mr. Salisbury’s always saying) and shout for help, and it’ll be over. Taken down by a bloody ribbon merchant and her inviting smile.

  
_I’m only me. I’m Simon Snow._ One breath. Then two.

  
His second breath is punched out of him as a young boy knocks into him from behind, running past him as fast as he can. Just as he’s gathered to courage to take the last couple of steps as well, which is just his luck. Just as the boy darts through the crowd, gathering more attention from the crowd, a man comes hurtling past Simon, running full speed towards him.

  
_Maybe the boy’s dad_ , he thinks, turning to watch the man just as he’s about to catch up to the little boy. He's certainly much too young, from what Simon can see, with dark hair trailing behind him. He's in a grey suit and he fills it out perfectly, which means he's either rich enough to afford tailored suits or hasn't started shrinking like old people do when they start getting old.

  
Anyway, they’ve gained the attention of everyone lingering by the market stalls, all turning to watch the pair sprinting through the street. It’s a whole mess, people screaming as they get pushed aside and grumbling about manners. Simon almost laughs, until he sees that the boy is slowing, tripping over his own feet. His frantic gait is worrying him already. He's going to trip if he continues running so fast, he's sure of it.

  
So Simon rushes forward, past the ribbon merchant and even the man chasing after the boy, running as fast as his feet will carry him. He knows the clench of his hands, sees the chains hanging from his tiny fingers before he notices anything else. A thief, then. A little one at that, barreling straight towards the butcher’s shop.

Simon doesn’t bother to wonder why this man is chasing him, just keeps running with every intention to save the boy. His thoughts are moving as fast as his legs, thinking he’s too young, with every step he takes. He knows how it feels to push past limits, to run long after you’re tired. He can’t bear to witness it, won’t let him get caught by this stranger hell-bent on ruining him.

  
He’s too young, only a boy. He speeds up as soon as the thought crosses his mind, head shooting down to watch his steps as he nearly stumbles over his own feet.

He looks up from the ground just in time to watch the boy’s foot catch on the edge of a table and watches him sprawl out on the ground. Simon stops abruptly at the sound of a wail piercing the air, like a police siren. He’s sure that someone must have called them, that they’re here to capture the boy, when he notices that the crowd around the butcher’s table has gone silent, except for the awful shrieking. It's a woman, the one nearest to the little boy. She's moving backward frantically, trying and failing to stifle her sobs with her hand shoved between her teeth.

  
He nears the group, watching the boy’s chest dip slowly as he lies on the ground. Simon can hear it slow from the ugly, rapid gasping of earlier into something softer. Like sleeping, deep and a little ragged, but even. It’s when he realizes that there’s blood on the ground. Deep red, fanning out from around his tiny torso like dragon wings.

  
_Oh fuck._

  
He can’t breathe or think, other than the constant stream of curses. There’s no reason why there should be so much blood pooling on the ground. Maybe a broken tooth, but no, it’s spilling from his chest, staining his jacket a deep red. There’s nothing but silence and the lone woman sobbing, and Simon’s heart beating so loudly that he can feel it pulsing through his body. A small boy on the ground, chest heaving, and gurgling. He wants to throw himself forward, to help him, but he can’t move.

He doesn't even know why he's bleeding so much.

  
The boy is starting to gasp, and Simon’s sure that his eyes are wide, facing the dirt. He’s got to move, got to get away from this scene and the people, but before he can turn away, the man from earlier is rushing past, mouth pressed into a firm line. He’s as silent as everyone else, even as he places his hand on the boy’s neck, right over his pulse point. He doesn’t look up, not even when the boy stops breathing, or when someone in the crowd lets out a long breath.

  
Simon staggers away, pulling himself upright and letting whoever that man is deal with it. He himself certainly can’t, not when his eyes are filling with tears that he can’t blink away and his chest feels so tight that he can’t manage a breath that isn’t a gasp. He looks back, once. The man’s staring at him with a strange look, maybe because Simon’s crying or maybe because he’s just witnessed someone die and he’s still got his hand on their neck, but either way, it’s unnerving him.

  
He closes his eyes and turns away, leaving behind both strangers so he can breathe. Penny will understand if he doesn’t show, or he’ll explain it to her next week when they meet again and she’s done chewing him out for being alive and not showing up for tea. He just needs to get home. He’ll tell Mr. Salisbury what happened and then he’ll get to lie in his bed all day without a single complaint. Skip dinner and get endless amounts of tea and scones instead, just like when Ebb passed.

  
**_Baz_**

Baz has absolutely no clue how this boy managed to snag the knife that was balanced on the butcher’s table on his coat. Had he not seen it just now, he wouldn’t have believed that anyone could have such awful luck. He’s watching the boy now - Mason - as he feels his hammering pulse recede into stillness. He stands, watching the crowd warily to gauge their reactions.

  
It’s shock and horror, and a few tears. Everyone in this part of town knows who he is and what he does, but he’s always afraid that someone will blame something like this on him. Surely, no one thinks that he killed this boy, and yet, there’s some boy in the crowd stumbling back, eyes alight and wide.

  
Baz watches him extra closely, feeling shame prickle on the back of his neck at the unadulterated horror on his face. _Maybe they knew each other_ , he thinks. _Maybe brothers_.  
They looked similar enough, and maybe that’s why the older boy was chasing so frantically after this small one. Same deep brown hair, and the same ridiculous hair cut – a thatch of loose curls on the top of their head, with shaved sides. Could’ve been a coincidence, but he takes a longer look at the startled boy just to make sure. Baz feels a pang of shock run through him as he sees tears streaming down the boy’s cheeks, and before he can confirm if they really did know each other, he turns and pushes through the crowd, which has already started to slowly disperse.

  
He sighs and turns back to the tiny body laying on the ground, taking a glance before he looks back towards the sky.

  
The boy – Mason – had mumbled something with his final breath, but Baz didn’t catch it, even in the heavy silence that followed the whole thing. He won't even bother to take the heavy chains from his hand. Let him have them. Someone else will take them later on, but for now, they’re his. Someone somewhere in the small crowd of people says, “He was only a boy.”

  
It makes Baz sigh again, eyes flicking back towards the crowd before fluttering closed again. He feels the constant ache in his neck increase, (which Gareth's always saying comes from all the stress of his job) and has to roll his head back down to face the ground to ease the pressure building up at the base of his skull.

  
He lets himself think about that, about how he was only a boy. Only about seven, or eight, maybe. 

  
“Jesus fuck,” he mutters, because he can’t help it. “Only a fucking kid.” His head is starting to spin, and he knows he should leave before anyone sees just how much it’s affecting him but even the small crowd still surrounding them is daunting, all those eyes on him, flashing with recognition.

  
“That’s all he’ll ever get the chance to be,” someone says. Their voice is small but clear, ringing through the air and wrapping around the forefront of his thoughts and that’s what it takes to get his feet to start moving. He won't let them see that he's weak, he can't. What kind of man would he be in his profession if he showed an ounce of regret for justice? Still, he can't help it, he needs to see who's said the words that he's thinking, that are consuming him.

  
Baz’s head whips around, eyes landing on the source of the words almost like magic. She’s a young woman from the looks of it. She’s a sight – all flared nostrils and clenched jaw and tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Baz wants to look away as he’s walking, but he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on her long after she’s looked back to Mason, on the floor until anyone who cares bothers to move him. Maybe she’ll be the one. Maybe that’s why she’d said it, why she’d stared at Baz like that.

  
He looks away when she meets his eyes again, and doesn't look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**\- Currently -**

_**Baz** _

Baz has been sitting at this desk for about nine hours, but it feels closer to four months, give or take a few. The name Simon Salisbury is burning into the front of his skull, and he isn’t any closer to figuring out anything about him that isn’t already on his profile sheet. The details are specific, but too standard and outdated to be of much use now.

_A young boy, looks to be about twelve to fourteen. Full head of light brunette curls. One witness described dark blue eyes and another claimed to have seen green. Appears to be severely malnourished and carries himself in the same manner. Has a bony frame and has been seen most commonly wearing dark shades of clothing which are too large for his stature._

Baz bites back a dark laugh as he reads the lone paragraph again. Not only is the given description four years old, but “seen most commonly,” refers to the six times that Salisbury was spotted at the time. In the four years since then, he could have dyed his hair. Or gotten a multitude of tattoos or fake tanned and shaved his head. He could also be dead or have moved out of the country, but there’s a robbery reported nearly every month and the thief has never been caught, (everyone knows it must be Salisbury.)

Baz’s department – the investigative branch of a law enforcement office in Northern Watford – is simply too good at solving these types of things. Their track record is statistically, nearly impeccable. Unfortunately, Salisbury’s crimes tend to be the same. They’d decided a long time ago to designate work on the case, handing it from standard police men to detectives to undercovers until finally, it made its way to Baz’s desk a week ago. Everyone’s tired of it. Baz has had it for far less time than everyone and he’s already tired of it.

There’s nothing to go on. Nothing that could lead to a sudden arrest, or an actual image of what he looks like now. Every victim has a hazy memory, or didn’t see his face close enough to describe him well. Which leaves Baz just as stuck as everyone else was. He pushes back from his desk, away from the ridiculously sparse sheet staring back at him, and sighs. His thoughts are on a constant loop, running circles in the furrows of his brain.

He finds himself mimicking them, pacing around his office and opening up each of the case files his coworkers had stacked on his desk; finally defeated after two months of coming up with nothing. On top of his mounting frustration, he’s starting to feel an _awful_ headache coming in – the neon pink of the highlighter he used is intensifying the pain behind his eyes. Even with all the highlighting that Baz did, the answer doesn’t miraculously jump out at him.

He spent all of the first day marking down all the consistencies between reports, with only a few in all of them. _Total disappearance. Vanished into thin air. Jumped out of the window. From the balcony. Out the door. Gone in a second._ The phrases are bright streaks on the paper, but they don’t make sense, really. Not even all put together. Baz even tried making a list of things that he knows from the papers. So far, he knows what Salisbury looked like four years ago. (Conclusively unhelpful.) Every victim who filed a report looks stunned after it happens, or generally dazed. (The staff who’d handled this case first decided that there was no evidence that he’d done anything to them, and so that was dismissed as anything useful.) That the most common phrase, out of all the words in the report, are “into thin air.” (It’s odd and strikes a chord that Baz can’t name. But it may as well be a stupid catchphrase.)

The last thing which strikes something deeper in him is Salisbury's targets. Any wealthy person, any age. As long as they live well off. Never anything intentionally broken or ruined, but many expensive things stolen. No one’s bothered to question motives when he hasn’t even been captured. But thieves are Baz’s thing. He knows the mindset of them; spent years in university studying the compulsions, all the things wrong with the wiring in their brain. It makes him feel like a target just to be on this case.

The last thing on his list is the recent witness report. The last sighting of Salisbury was right before Baz was given the file. A woman called the department line around two a.m. a week ago, and said the same thing as every other person, emphasis on the same stupid line – _into thin air, he just vanished!_ Baz huffs out a sigh, mindlessly scanning the pages now and chewing on his lower lip.

The clock on his desk starts flashing, the red numbers seemingly screaming at him. It feels like a sign, a reminder of some kind. He’s always been the last to leave the office, and there’s no way he’s leaving now, right when something feels like it’s about to come together. _Or_ , he thinks, pressing his pen cap to his temple to force down the headache, _you need to go home and fucking sleep_.

But he’s been this frustrated for days, and even before he got the case. It’s not normal, no one can just disappear randomly like that. It’s fucking impossible. There’s no bloody way. He’s pacing again, repeating it to himself. “Disappears, like nothing,” he mumbles, “vanishes _into thin air_.” All of a sudden, the pen in his hand vanishes.

Baz freezes, blood turning cold. And then he fucking gets it.

_**Simon** _

This is the third night in a row that Simon’s come to this neighborhood.

He really should be more careful with this, but he hasn’t been spotted since last week and he’s giddy and careless from the two nights before this. He’d snuck out of both huge houses with findings that even Mr. Salisbury praised him for, without even getting caught. A pretty silver hand mirror that looks brand new, and a tiny velvet bag holding three golden rings, as well as a wad of cash (he didn’t bother counting it.) There’s something thrumming in his veins and it’s making him jittery. He hopes it’s all the magic bubbling up inside him, and nothing else.

He doesn’t like to think too much about that either, though. Magic, or having it, or having to use it. It feels dangerous in a way that not normal things are – to use it in situations like this. Mr. Salisbury tells him that it’s for the best, and he knows that in a way it is. He’s lucky to have this advantage, to be _special_.

He just wishes sometimes that it didn’t feel like being lit on fire from the inside when he’s at his most powerful. It makes him feel more like a villain, like something dangerous.

He tries to take the nervousness and channel it into excitement. The flow of energy in his limbs makes him more agile, so it’s easier to scale the wall surrounding all the houses. He could swing the gate open easily – he’s got the magic for it – but it’s unsteady when he’s excited and he doesn’t want to overdo it and send it flying off the hinges. His gut twists with anticipation as he presses his heels into the ground on the other side, steadying himself with a breath before glancing around at the homes, making sure no one’s around to see him. The bad feeling sticks though, even as he gets over just fine. He shoves it to the back of his mind and turns off his brain as he starts to walk.

_**Baz** _

He’s on his feet already, so he lunges towards the filing cabinet in the corner easily. He hasn’t even processed what he’s thinking yet; his mind’s careening towards the least plausible theory. But he knows exactly _what_ he’s dealing with, and if it’s right, he knows exactly how to finish this.

“It’s a bloody _spell_ ,” he mutters, pulling the desk keys from his coat pocket. He opens the drawer as swiftly as he can without dislocating a finger, breathing uneven as he works it open and then there’s his wand, sitting plainly in view. It’s been years since he’s actually used it. His voice has all the intent he needs to cast without an instrument, (which he proved and lost his favorite pen in the process), and it’s been years since magicians have actually needed to use a tool to cast. But it’s a reminder, and it feels good to hold it in his hands as he thinks about Salisbury – the revelation that he may be a magician too.

It’s a pretty damn good explanation for all that’s been happening. The confused victims, all with the same dazed look on their faces. Each and every single one of them not comprehending exactly what just happened, all with the same explanation. And it’s Baz’s strong point, he knows now. This was his case all along.

He’d always been told by his father that Normals can’t comprehend magic. Their minds are too fragile to understand something unless they’ve been taught it or been born with it. The same thing goes for magicians, he supposes, but Normals literally won’t comprehend it. Which makes Salisbury the cleverest robber he’s ever known – and one of the most gifted. To hide in plain sight, with the power to. Genius.

Either that, or he’s just a bumbling, bloody idiot who casts spells and leaves traces of it as blatantly as he can; expecting no one to know. Or maybe that’s the clever part of him? Baz should definitely leave this for the morning. His headache’s only gotten worse with all the adrenaline in his system, and if it gets any worse, he may just start crying. He knows he should get out of this stupid office and go home and sleep for the last four hours that he has before he has to get up and come right back.

But there’s that urgency screaming at him, and he’s never needed much sleep anyway, so he swallows painkillers dry and hopes for the best. He’s _absolutely_ going to resolve this now. He refuses to doom himself to staring endlessly at the same paperwork for more answers – this has to be it, the _only_ answer.

Placing his wand back into the drawer, he locks it again, then presses his key back into his coat. The clock on his desk flashes at him again, dark red numbers reading nearly three a.m. The color is the same as always, but in this light, it feels like a warning. Baz takes it lightly. “Alright Salisbury, let’s see just how smart you really are then.”

_“Show me the fine line, don’t waste my time.”_

A golden thread appears at his feet and trails under the door, as he shrugs on his coat. Baz has no choice but to follow it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhh hi ! i am ENDLESSLY sorry for dropping off the face of the earth with this work and i just got the world's worst case of writer's block. i was about to abandon it entirely, but it's my baby and despite the challenges i face writing it, i love it dearly.
> 
> hope y'all enjoy the second chapter, (i'm trying to improve on my third person writing) (it is SO difficult) but yes. i love you all vv much in this fandom, thank you for the continued support, it all means sososo much to me.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Simon** _

  
He’s only been walking for a few minutes when he sees her. Tawny, shiny long locks. She’s got the warmest brown eyes he’s ever seen in his life; sparkling even in the dark. She’s absolutely gorgeous, and Simon’s sure that she’s grinning at him, inviting him to come closer. 

The night is still. They’re the only ones out on the street (no one in their right mind is awake right now anyway) and the quiet and the cool air is doing well to settle his nerves. He risks inching closer, keeping his eyes trained on her own. Even if she recognizes him, he thinks, It’s alright. Simon’s never been one to trust without good reason, and she’s as trust worthy as they come. She probably has no one to tell anyway. Or, no _way_ to tell at least. Finally, he gets within a couple feet from her. Slowly, he smiles at her, raising his eyebrows and smiling hesitantly. When he holds his hand out, it’s like flipping a switch. 

  
The dog – a golden retriever looking type – comes bounding towards Simon, and he’s sinking down to his knees to welcome her kisses faster than he’s ever moved in his life. “Hi baby, hi hello, it’s nice to meet you,” he giggles softly, evading her tongue as he pets her and fumbles at the collar around her neck to search for a tag. “Hold on sweetie,” he mumbles, holding back his laughter as it bubbles up all around him, which only makes her more eager to climb into his lap. Finally, he gets the clasp undone and holds it up catch the light from the street lamp next to them. “Your name is,” he starts, but promptly closes his mouth again as she laps her tongue against his nose. “Cordelia?” His nose scrunches involuntarily. “Who names a dog _Cordelia_?”

_Rich people_ , he thinks. He sounds horrified even in his own head.

  
Simon stays to pet her for a while, forgiving her awful name for her cheer. Something easy to pronounce would have been nicer. Or something that sounds like dog – something like Dob - would have at least been funny. He’d preferred simple, one syllable names since he was younger. They’d always been the easiest part of a sentence he couldn’t quite get out. Speech impediment. It was unpleasant having Mr. Salisbury trail him around most days, demanding that Simon repeat a sentence or a phrase, but eventually, he’d grown thankful for the constant push. Now he can manage to string several sentences together, and even if they’re awkward – he can do it now. That’s the only part that matters.

  
He pushes his face into her neck one last time, giving her a tight squeeze, before finally standing up. The collar falls out of his lap onto the ground, with a soft clink. He manages to latch the collar back on quick before she starts to run in the opposite direction. There’s a sigh that replaces the goodbye he’d had on his tongue as he watches her trot away. 

  
_**Baz** _

  
The path on the ground in front of Baz thankfully tends to prefer painting itself on the sidewalk rather than the middle of the street. There’re not many cars out – it’s probably around four in the morning by now, though he’s not exactly sure how long he’s been walking. Each time the line fades a bit, he thinks he’s found it. He looks up for the hundredth time as it disappears off into a bush, as if Salisbury would be squashing some unfortunate person’s shrubbery, instead of home, sleeping, like everyone else. All his adrenaline from earlier has petered out, and it’s dawning on him that he probably won’t get any sleep tonight. That, combined with the thought of getting robbed in the early morning makes him uneasy, and he realizes the odds are _not_ in his favor at all. He stops walking to catch his breath and study the suit he’s wearing. It’s perfectly tailored and he has a matching watch band, along with gleaming leather shoes in the same color.

  
Cursing on an exhale, he chastises himself for being so careless. He doesn’t even know where he’s at anymore. When he looks up from his shoes, the line is stilled in the middle of the sidewalk again. Frustration and sleeplessness are making his vision blurry, and his hand raises to wave away the spell before he realizes he’s even moving. Right before he can spit out the reverse spell, the golden light veers off towards the right, sparking brightly along the sidewalk. Baz glances up with wild eyes as it speeds off, crossing under a massive, bronze gate a couple of meters away. It ignites something warm in his chest, erasing frustrations instantly. He can see windows reflecting amber light from the street lamps, somewhere beyond the gate.

  
He sprints after the line, too-tight shoes be damned. There’s a wide enough gap to crawl through under, but Baz just places his hand on the closest bar and mutters an unlocking spell under his breath. The gate swings open, and he’s off again, chasing the line as it flies across the street towards the corner. He curses as he sees it speed up, then make a right around the sidewalk. He’s just about to start slowing down to ease the pain sparking in his feet when it starts to glimmer at his feet, fading out fast in front of him. _Well_.

  
He starts running again, this time with his shoes in hand. He recoils at the feeling of his socks catching on the cement under his feet, but can’t bring himself to care much. This is his chance to close a case that’s been open since Baz was about fifteen, and he’s not stopping now for a single thing. 

  
_Except, well…_

  
There’s a golden retriever laying on the lawn as he passes, and he slows automatically, without even thinking. The dog looks between Baz and the fading line. It’s reminding him to keep running, even as bad as he wants to stay and pretend that he’s not in this mess. He stops only for a second, before he starts off again, contemplating how he got here in the first place.  
He’ll have time to pet it later, maybe. Once Salisbury is in custody. Or he’ll get his own. He’s always had an affinity for big dogs. He breaks from his thoughts once the line fades off completely in front of him. He looks up through the window of the house across from him, intensely watching a shadow on the curtain. _Maybe a cabinet or rocking chair?_ Then, it shifts towards the edge of the room. Baz doesn’t stop to ponder this – he’s already creating a plan on his way.

  
  
_**Simon**_

  
The library is arguably the worst room in the house to keep valuables, but that’s where Simon finds everything. There are more books than you’d find at a public library, and he’s desperate to snag one, but there’d be no point. Mr. Salisbury rarely lets him keep anything for himself, and when he does it’s usually just a few coins. The rest goes to the neighborhood. 

  
Parents with too many children to count, with aunts and uncles too. Cousins, nieces and nephews all living under the same roof. Mr. Salisbury made it his mission to see to every single one of them. He trades all the things he finds to buy supplies and food for all of them that can’t, and Simon can’t bring himself to complain about not having enough for himself. In exchange for all the things, no one questions why exactly Mr. Salisbury chooses to live under ground. Each time he brings guests, they’ll smile and nod and shake Simon’s hand. No one bats an eye at the tiny shed that’s supposed to sleep two, but fits one comfortably.

He can’t complain – the main room has a skylight that goes straight up the chimney, so he can see the sky when it rains. It puts him at ease to see the clouds, makes his chest a little lighter than it was.

  
He pauses in front of an ornate cabinet, full of tiny glass figures, and smiles. Mr. Salisbury favors things that can be traded without suspicion – silks and scarves and cash, most of all – but Simon can’t bring himself to look away from the shelves full. There’s a miniature crane, a tiny hot air balloon, and a shoe. He’s baffled for a split second as he stares at them all, before coming to see each tiny paper attached. Some have dates – recognizable ones like Valentine’s and Christmas Eve. Others have random ones that Simon couldn’t possibly know, but reading through them makes him feel sick. 

  
_This_ is not his to touch. He prides himself on the art of taking; his inability to be caught. He glows from the inside out (not literally, he doesn’t think) when Mr. Salisbury thanks him for what he’s brought back. But these things, pieces of family memory, aren’t anyone’s except these people. He’ll only ever feel proud to help others if he’s taking things that _no one_ truly needs. 

  
Trying not to get caught up in the memories makes it worse – he tries not to think too hard about the people that he’s taking from, but it’s inevitable. They’ll never remember his face (the magic blurs his features into something too generic to identify), but he always remembers theirs. He shakes away the fear and revulsion, all the expressions that remind him of how truly awful this is, and presses his palms to a bookcase in front of him to slow his breathing. As soon as he remembers himself, where exactly he’s standing; that weight in his chest settles back in. _It’s for the greater good_ , he thinks. Over and over again, for as long as he can before he reminds himself to get back to it. 

  
He steps away from the frame shakily, nearly running into a case full of plates and sending the entire thing crashing down. _Slow_ , he reminds himself, breathing again. Once, twice. Again, and again.

_**Baz** _

  
The easiest way to get in is through the front door. Baz only came to that conclusion since he didn’t stop to worry about alarms, and the door happened to be unlocked, but he’s saved time with his carelessness nonetheless. Wealthy people never worry about the locks on their homes – which has been proven time and time again by each theft case he’s been on. His father as well; too certain of the iron bars surrounding their yard to even install locks.

  
Baz installed extra locks when he’d moved in, and locks his doors three times every night – once when he first gets home, a second time after he’s eaten, and a third right before he goes to sleep.

  
He steps inside soundlessly, shutting the heavy door with practiced hands so it makes as little sound as possible. His hands are trembling with exhaustion, or maybe relief he can feel now that Salisbury’s finally under his thumb. Just a week of being on this case was making him insane. Too many dead ends, too many people losing their valuables. He freezes in the doorway to settle himself, and then starts to walk slowly up the stairs. As he reaches the top, he considers the three doors on the left side. It’d be disastrous if he walked into someone’s room – not only does he not have a warrant, but his supervisor might have a hard time understanding how Baz pinpointed the exact house Salisbury was in.

  
Under his breath, he whispers a “ _show me the fine line_ ,” and watches as a tiny stream of golden light shoots straight between the hinges of a dark wood door in the very corner. He has to press a hand to his mouth to force back the shaky gasp from his mouth. It’s parts relief and excitement, after finally putting an end to all of this. Another part fear. This is a magic user – a _wizard_ – just like Baz is. He can’t help the cold coil snaking through his chest, making his hands shake with dread. He has no idea what to expect, and it could end disastrously if he’s not careful with it. He breathes through his nose, letting his breath come out shaking through his mouth. 

He takes slow steps towards the door and doesn’t let himself think before turning the handle sharply and shoving the door open.

**_Simon_ **

  
The glass case catches the reflection and gives him away before the sound does. Simon’s already turning around the second he sees the door move, golden paint catching the light of the lamps outside and shining dangerously on the panels. There’s a man standing there, huffing controlled breaths through his nose. Like he’s just run a marathon, in a damn suit, for some reason. Simon allows himself to let his breath rush out of his nose, a second of blinding panic before he decides to force a smile.

_**Baz** _

  
For all he’s about to go through, for all the trouble he’s caused; Simon Salisbury smiles at Baz. Like he couldn’t care less that he’s been caught. It makes Baz want to throw one back – whether one means a smile or a punch. He’s not decided yet.

_**Simon** _

  
_“Your smile is disarming, Simon. You’ve got the charm of a priest’s son, use it for your sake – only if you must_ ,” says Penny in his head. She’s constantly in his head, reminding him of the things that he loses somewhere in his panic. Especially in situations like this, when he’s caught. The smile is what makes them second-guess him, like maybe he’s got a rational reason for being in their home. It buys him enough time to double check himself, and then to make his escape right as they begin to panic. 

  
Penny thinks it’s his magic that makes the smile more effective. Simon thinks he should stop memorizing the things that Penny says, since they seem to get stuck in his head at the worst times. To her credit though, the man _does_ look disarmed. He’s squinting at Simon like he’s confused, or maybe irritated. 

_**Baz** _

  
He is definitely not the genius that Baz presumed he was. In the split second that Salisbury’s sizing him up; Baz takes four steps to close the space between them. He barely even moves, simply shifting closer to the window with that strange grin on his face. Baz assumes he’s shooting for cunning, but there’s something shifting behind his eyes that Baz can’t place. Maybe surprise. It’s unnerving, how they haven’t traded a single word still, even as so much goes on underneath his face, so Baz makes the first move. 

  
“Simon Salisbury, you’re under arrest,” he says in a low voice, trying to keep his voice down. It’s not standard protocol to make arrests himself, and he really doesn’t want to wake the homeowners. Baz works with investigations; he figures out what’s going on and then calls the police to deal with the arrest. For _fucks_ sake, he’s probably going to have to explain to his supervisor how he knew to look in the house, and there’s no way he’d mention magic. He’s still staring him down, trying to quell the sudden alarm running through him, when Salisbury begins to laugh. 

_**Simon** _

  
The last time Simon was this terrified, he’d started sobbing just to release the fear. 

  
He only laughs now to keep himself from crying. It startles the man and buys him enough time to think of what’s next. He wonders about how on Earth the fucking police found him. How they thought to come straight to this house, and why the owners haven’t been alerted already. It only just occurs to him, as he watches the man take another step towards him, that he’s broken in too.

He practically whispered just now, and he’s shuffling his feet on the carpet to keep from stomping too hard. It gives Simon the clarity he needs to regroup, and confront this. 

  
Except, well. He doesn’t know exactly what to say to that. And he’s not entirely sure that they’re both break-ins to begin with. He can't just go accusing the police of illegal activity.

  
“Huh?” is the clever thing he comes up with in the end. The man, in all his disheveled triumph, has the good grace to cringe at his response. Simon winces, deciding then to just jump from the window like always. He’ll land back home before he even hits the ground, and then he can worry about not thinking about this whole mess. 

  
“Oh right, well. I should probably be uh, going now,” he laughs, like this is just a simple misunderstanding, “Sorry for all the trouble though.”

  
“What?” Starts the man, but Simon’s already turning towards the window.

  
_**Baz** _

  
There’s a split second where Baz hesitates. He watches as Salisbury blunders through his word, and stays frozen as he watches him open the window. “ _Shit_.”

  
He runs after him, grabbing on to his arm and trying to pull the bag from his shoulder. Salisbury falls back and tries desperately to keep it on as he wrenches forward again to get a leg out of the window. He nearly falls out in the process, and as he loses his balance, Baz tumbles over on the ledge with him. 

  
They’ve nearly fallen out, Baz’s heaving chest to Salisbury’s back, trying to keep his legs steady.

  
“You _idiot_. Get inside before you kill us both,” he bites, trying to loop his arm under Salisbury’s to pull him back up. 

  
“Get _off_ of me!” Salisbury gasps, head shaking violently as he tries to push Baz off of him. He can’t move under his weight, and he can feel his skin starting to burn. His breathing speeds up as Baz pushes down harder, trying to pull them back inside. His grip slackens as he realizes that Salisbury’s skin is starting to light, glowing golden and giving off sparks.

_**Simon** _

He knows the minute he starts to hyperventilate that he’s going to flood. He’s never done well panicking, and being trapped against a windowsill is setting him off. He’s trying his best to breathe, one and two, through his nose and out his mouth, but it’s hard and he’s never been so scared before. The blood rushing in his ears is almost enough to drown out the man's voice, but Simon still hears the word, _magic_ thrown out. It makes his blood run cold.

  
He just needs to speak, say the words and throw himself without killing this _asshole_ in the process, but he's going off and it's impossible to talk properly. Finally, he finds his grasp on the window frame. 

  
“ _Let go of me!_ ” He yells, but it’s muffled by the man’s hand and comes out drenched in magic. The spell tugs him out of the window, with the man only barely holding on to his ankle. A soon as his hand leaves Simon's mouth, he's screaming again. 

“ _Into thin air!_ ” He briefly registers that there's a pain bursting through his whole leg, before everything starts to get spotty.

  
Then, there’s nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the third chapter y'all ! i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it - it was actually really fun to go back and edit this time now that i have an outline. fourth chapter is coming soon, stay tuned for that ! thank y'all for the support, as always <3


	4. Chapter 4

_**Simon** _

  
The first thing that he notices is that his leg is on fire. Hazily, he lifts his head to check, ignoring the dull, thrumming pain in his skull and slumping back when he finds no actual flame. He’s quite certain that his knee isn’t supposed to be on the side of his leg, but his head feels too heavy to care much. It takes another second to realize that there’s sand coating every inch of his body, and it sends a bolt of fear striking hot through his chest. A groan falls out of his mouth before he can stop it, but he’s silenced by a hand over his mouth and another one gently pressing his forehead down. 

  
_**Baz** _

  
He’d woken up a while before Salisbury, but his head had been ringing too much to care about where they’d ended up. He’d sat up just enough to see piles of sand everywhere, and a few rocks scattered throughout, and then promptly laid back down. He should be worrying, probably a lot, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything more than dazed. His head feels like it’s full of cotton, and his lips are numb. Every thought that crossed through his head just flitters out of grasp, so he focuses on the sky instead, counting clouds and squinting against the sun.

  
And then Salisbury woke up. 

  
The second Baz heard him start to shift; he sat up again just in time to press a hand to his open mouth and another one to his forehead to lay him back down. Baz had been desperately hoping that he wouldn’t see his leg, but the noise he makes like his voice has been ripped straight from his throat, confirms that he has.  
He mumbles something against Baz’s palm, but it’s muffled, so he removes both hands with a grimace and tries to keep his eyes on Salisbury’s to keep him from looking down at his leg.

  
“Motherfucker,” he mutters, “Stop covering my mouth when I talk.”

  
There’s annoyance flickering behind all the pain in his face, and it convinces Baz that it might not be that bad. But his eyes are fluttering, and his speech is slurred throughout each word. His breath is shallow and strained, chest heaving with a faint rattle. He waits until Salisbury stops talking and closes his eyes again, then looks back down at his leg. All the blood drains from his face.   
His black pants are torn from the thigh all the way down to his calf, which reveals the way his knee pokes towards his arm, rather than up. There’s blood coming from multiple scrapes on his skin, and it’s too awful to look at. It’s most-likely broken and it’s his fault, he knows. But it’s also bloody Salisbury’s. They wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place if it weren’t for him. 

  
Baz huffs and turns away, partially to stop looking at the gruesome scene and partly to try to guess again about where they’ve ended up. It looks like flat desert land – all blonde sand and rocky soil and absolutely _no_ water anywhere. The sun’s nearly directly overhead, so it must be near noon, and it is bloody _hot_. Baz pulls his eyes back away from the sky to look down at Salisbury again. His eyes are open, squinting against the glare of the sun and he’s struggling to sit up without jostling his leg. _Merlin_. 

  
“Alright, give me your hand before you get even more hurt, you oaf.”

_**Simon** _

  
There’s never been a moment in his entire life that someone had called Simon an oaf. Maybe clumsy. Or peculiar, or hot-heated or too stubborn, but never an _oaf_. He freezes faster than he ever has before, whipping his head around to fix a glare on the man’s face. He’s staring back at Simon with an ugly sneer that makes his blood boil. He’s about to say something back, but as he twists to get up, his knee turns a bit more. He stifles a scream and stills again, trying desperately not to show all the tension in his jaw as he lies back flat again. The policeman sees right through it, of course, and arches an eyebrow as he waits for him to recover.

  
“Fuck you,” Simon grits, reaching out his hand. He pulls him up gently, making sure to place a hand on the back of Simon’s neck to keep from jostling his head. Apparently, he’d noticed the injury to his head as well. _Of course, he’s attentive to details, he’s a bloody cop_. Simon tries to shake off his bitterness, focusing instead on keeping his eyes from crossing. His head feels like it’s splitting in half, right down the middle. He focuses on willing it away, drawing his magic up to pour out over him like a bucket over his head. 

  
The man’s eyes have gotten wide, and it only takes Simon a second to realize that his skin is smoking. He draws back immediately, even though it gets rid of the alleviation that was starting to creep in, because all the energy coursing through him makes his leg ache dangerously. 

  
“What are you _doing_?” The man sounds incredulous. Simon thinks it may be because he’s smoking at the pores. It occurs to him, briefly, that that’s not exactly normal, so he decides to reassure the man before he passes out again. 

  
“This always happens, my doctor said it’s completely normal,” Simon slurs, eyes nearly slipping closed again as he focuses on the thrumming pain in his skull and the burning pain in his leg. The ground rises up and he’s swallowed up again by dark. 

_**Baz** _

  
This is the second time Salisbury has slumped over again, and it’s starting to worry Baz. The detectives had made it clear that his life had no matter – he was to be captured dead or alive. But Baz is no killer, and he has no way to explain this situation without Salisbury or mentioning magic. He could just use his magic to fix up the truth so it’s more believable, but there are too many holes in his story. To explain that he’d been strolling through a gated neighborhood and so happened to see Salisbury wouldn’t be a plausible story, and the type of magic he’d need to get them to believe him is much more than he has. That, and he really doesn’t want this man’s blood on his hands.

Baz looks away from him after making sure that he’s still breathing, and mutters healing spells one after another, hoping one sticks. Slowly, the blood clears away and he can see the sleeping boy visibly relax, though each time Baz adds another spell, he stiffens again. 

The sun shines down on his scalp and burning magic floods his body, but Baz still feels cold looking down at him. 

_**Simon** _

  
The worst nightmares plague Simon while he sleeps. He’s always had them: faces that scream at him, and eyes that stream with tears. Anger, grief, sorrow, disappointment – these are the things that he can’t outrun. He dreams that he’s on fire now, like the fire started inside his chest and is streaming up into this throat. When he tries to move, to scream, to do anything at all; his body collapses into ash. 

  
He wakes up with a gasp, the sun burning down on him. At first, he thinks he’s actually burning. His whole body feels like a lit match, but as soon as he turns his eyes on the man kneeling over him, the feeling recedes. 

  
“Where _are_ we?” Simon asks, sitting up slowly in case his head still hurts. It doesn’t. Neither does his knee, but he’s not about to look down and check it. There’s no way that it isn’t broken, (he saw it earlier) but he feels fear settle in the pit of his chest when he can’t feel it.

  
“We’re in the desert, apparently. Thanks to your reckless spell.”

  
It’s a prime distraction to know that, at least. _The desert_? Simon sorts quickly though the past events and can’t find anything that might’ve led to this. He knows his magic gets out of control, but nothing like this has ever happened. His head latches on to the word desert before he spirals back to magic.

  
He can’t say that he’s surprised that the man knows that he’s magic. He did say _spell_ just now, and he knew to hold onto Simon before he could escape properly. But it still shocks him silent for a second, trying to gauge the best way to navigate this without giving away too much.

  
“It’s not supposed to work like that,” he scoffs. “Not that it’s any of your business how it works.”

  
“Oh, no, it doesn’t concern me at all that the boy who’s been stealing for years uses _magic_ to get away with his crime. I’m only the detective assigned to your case. One out of about twenty prior ones, might I add.”

  
“Twenty?” He echoes, a little lost. The man looks disturbed, probably mistaking Simon’s expression for pride. “That seems a bit… excessive. For one man, I mean. Surely, you could have done it on your own – figuring out that I’m magic.”

“You’re not magic, you _have_ magic. And I only know that because I have it. Not everyone on the force does, Salisbury.”

  
He’d called him that before, in the library, but it still makes Simon wince. “Please don’t call me that.”

  
“Your name?” He peers curiously at Simon, maybe expecting a bold reply.

  
“My name is Simon. Also, I don’t have your name,” he says, swallowing down his irritation. 

  
“No, you don’t have mine. You have yours. Are you trying to steal my name now, Salisbury?”

  
“My name is _Simon_ ,” he says, frustrated beyond belief. What a bloody prick. Simon doesn’t have the time to explain Mr. Salisbury’s agenda, nor does he think that he can convince him that they have a good cause even if he does. So he just turns his head, blinking back angry tears that spring to his eyes.

  
_**Baz** _

  
It was unnecessarily cruel to say, but Baz doesn’t have time to make friends with the criminal. They need to sort out this problem, get back home, and the people will finally rest knowing he’s been incarcerated. Of course, they can’t get anywhere until they figure things out. Salisbury has his jaw clenched fiercely and his hands are balled up into fists, obviously upset. It brings Baz some satisfaction to know that he’ll be easy to read – it’ll make getting a confession a lot easier – but he knows that they won’t get anywhere until he makes nice. The thought of being friendly makes him feel sick, so he settles for indifference. 

  
Salisbury beats him to it, but keeps his face turned away from Baz.

  
“Look. We’re stuck here, with no supplies or anything. We’ve got to get out for one.” 

  
“Yes, we do,” Baz agrees flatly.

  
“So, we need to figure out things. Okay, like with a list. Things we know right now and things we might be able to figure out soon,” he says, slowly, more to himself than Baz. “Magic too,” he adds after a second, “That’s important as well, I suppose.”

  
Baz nods, then clears his throat so Salisbury will look at him, and nods again.

  
“Alright,” he says hesitantly, like he’s worried that Baz might say something else. “I guess where we are is the most important thing. Can you figure it out with magic?”

  
His mouth draws into a firm line, but he nods once more. Salisbury’s expression goes dark for a moment as Baz refuses to speak, but it’s safer if he doesn’t. He can’t help himself from saying the cruelest thing, and it’d probably ruin any progress that they make if he made Salisbury angry. 

  
“ _There’s no map, show me where_.”

  
Some of the sand from where they’re sitting swirls up and begins to form a ball in front of them. Each continent is sketched out precisely, until they’re staring at a full globe rotating slowly. Baz narrows his eyes as he stares at it, ignoring how close Salisbury shifts to look as well.

  
“Is it marked?” He starts, but Baz shushes him sharply. They both look intently as the globe expands, turning all the way to Asia. Baz’s blood freezes in his body. _From Europe to Asia?_ He turns to glance at Salisbury, still staring at the globe with wide eyes. _Who is this kid? Who even has the magic for a spell like this?_

Salisbury gasps, so Baz looks back at the sand image in front of them. 

  
“What did I say?” Salisbury asks, voice strangled. “When you were trying to grab me? Did I tell you to get off of me?”

  
Baz can’t pull his eyes away from the map, but he answers softly. “Let go of me. You told me to let go of you. But… I covered-“

  
“You covered my mouth.” He’d already been speaking with intent. That’s why he’d jerked out of Baz’s grasp like that – he’d made his words a spell all on their own.

_**Simon** _

  
“Merlin, you brought us to the fucking Gobi desert,” the man says beside him, but Simon can barely hear him.

  
_Let go of me_. Simon wants to laugh, but it gets caught in his throat. “ _Go of me_ ,” doesn’t sound much like Gobi, but his mouth had been covered at the time. It would have been so easy for his words to get muddled, and with the magic bursting out of him, well…

  
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound that the man makes, and he finds himself looking to check his expression. He’s incredulous, not quite smiling, but his gaping mouth is turned up at the corners. It’s a terrifying face, and Simon finds himself cringing away from it as best as he can without moving his lower half. But it finally gives him the courage to check his leg and finds that while all the blood’s gone, his knee is still angled outward. He swallows back bile and looks back over at the man, wondering what’s passing through his head. 

  
Simon clears his throat and tries to snap him out of his shock. “Okay so. We have that; that’s solved. That’s good then. We’ve just got to get back home, we can use magic for that.”

  
The man does snap out of it, thankfully, but his expression is unreadable as he says, “I don’t have the magic for teleportation. This shouldn’t even be possible.” 

  
He shifts his entire body to face Simon now. “Do you realize how powerful you are? Why are you wasting so much magic on doing so much harm?” His face is wild and open all of a sudden, a mask of equal parts rage and confusion.

  
He doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known how powerful he was before this. Only that he had magic and all that Mr. Salisbury had told him about it. Thinking of him makes Simon think of how awful his disappointment will be when Simon comes home after this (he won’t go to prison), so he hides the thought in the back of his mind and tucks his fingers into his hands. 

  
“Can we figure out the rest of everything before we get into magic? That seems like the least of our problems, at least right now.”

  
The man’s face grows impassive again as he looks down at Simon’s knee. He’s still for a minute, but it feels like five as Simon anticipates his rejection. He sighs and then says, “Alright then, we’ll need to fix this. I’m not powerful enough to do it with magic though.”

  
Simon only nods resolutely, batting back his chaotic thoughts. He has other things to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is chapter four lovelies ! it is being published a bit faster since it's short and i'm designating more time to write now. hope y'all enjoy this one, and chapter five should be ready soon enough. thank y'all for the love and support, as always. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small lil warning for injury description in this chapter ! nothing too graphic but simon is a lil hurt and it's a lil gross to picture, please proceed with caution !

_**Baz** _

  
He’d only agreed to change the subject because of the look on Salisbury’s face. Like his entire world had just crumbled in front of his eyes and he couldn’t stop it. It could have been the magic comments, but something seems off about it. There’s something deeper under the surface that Baz doesn’t know about, but he’s not about to pry. Even now, as he thinks about how to fill the silence helpfully; Salisbury’s eyes are still distant as he lays his hand over his leg, like he’s not really seeing it at all. 

  
Baz hopes that he actually can’t see it. Even with all the gore gone, it’s still very obviously in the wrong place and definitely not any easier to look at, so he tilts his chin up to watch Salisbury’s face, all screwed up in concentration.

  
Baz watches carefully as Salisbury sucks in a breath and closes his eyes halfway. He’s not speaking, but Baz can practically hear his thoughts pouring out of his head. He wonders, only for a second, what he’s thinking. How he’ll manage to fix this with magic, if Baz isn’t even powerful enough to. 

  
How powerful he is, really, is what's consuming his thoughts. The idea of having so much magic makes him feel slightly dizzy, like he’s drowning in a well full of water but breathing fine. He’s still sitting there, gaze on his leg with his hands hovering over his knee. Baz’s mind spins as he starts to feel the air burn around Salisbury.

  
_What’s it like to have so much power in your fingertips? To know you can escape safely as you bring down the world around you?_

  
It’s something he’s never known. If he had so much power, he doesn't know what he'd do with it.

_**Simon** _

  
When he was eight, Simon had his hand smashed in a door on accident. He’d been walking too closely behind Mr. Salisbury for him to have noticed that he was trailing. When he shut the back door, Simon stuck his fingers in the gap to keep it open, not thinking. He never thought much about anything, then. 

  
He’d wailed and cried for about a minute, wishing that it’d never happened in the first place. He does that sometimes, when things are bad. Wishes that they’d never even happened, because he doesn’t know how to deal with what’s right in front of him. He’d wished and cried, and all of a sudden, the pain was gone. It was the first time Mr. Salisbury had really _noticed_ him in all their time living together. 

  
It’s what he’s thinking about now, as he wishes that his leg was just fine. It still hurts so bad (far worse than having his hand caught in a door,) but he grits his teeth and still pushes on his magic, wishing and wishing.

  
Nothing rises up. He tries to focus his attention on the pain, but it makes him slip and lose hold on his power, like he’s grabbing fistfuls of empty air. Penny used to tell him to think about something steady that held his magic up for him – _“and all you’d have to do is grab it, Simon.”_

  
Thinking about Penny makes him ache. Thinking about home in general makes him ache all over. He pushes away the thoughts and keeps grasping at his magic, even though nothing comes.

  
“ _Fuck_ , come on,” he grits, ignoring the feel of the man’s eyes burning into him. Simon’s eyes are slipping closed so he can focus better, but he’s too hyperaware to not notice that he’s being stared at. It makes him more anxious as he grapples, but finally, his magic latches on to something in his chest. He lets it catch and then thinks about it spilling up, pooling into his palms and drenching his knee. Slowly, he breathes and focuses the burning into his fingertips, touching his knee gently and giving the tiniest shove. 

  
The pain multiples by hundreds, _thousands_ , instantly. Simon cries out as his eyes fly open, jerking back his hand like he’s just been burned. The skin under his hand is all mottled and red, smoking slightly, and it brings tears to his eyes. 

  
The man lets out a startled noise, hands flying up to the sides of his face as he looks at Simon with alarm. He can’t help crying – it hurts so much worse than it had earlier. He doesn’t even mind that he’s doing it in front of the stupid police man, even though he knows he's acting concerning. The thought makes him sniff harder, fighting the sobs that want to come out in place of his weak tears. He doesn’t even realize that the man’s speaking until he sees a hand pass across his face. He looks up at the man, who lowers his hands slowly and shifts his expression into something calmer. It's startling to see, knowing that he's never been capable of hiding his feelings. 

  
“What?” Simon hisses out through his teeth, looking down again and desperately wishing to undo this whole mess even as nothing changes. His hands are shaking so he pushes them into the sand, ignoring the burning heat of it on his knuckles.

  
“Do you have a middle name?” The man asks casually. It's forced; all the concern that disappeared from his face leaks through into his voice. Still, the question makes Simon still, tears starting to slow.

“What?” he asks again, calmer though. He can feel himself squinting tightly as he glances at him without turning his head.

  
“You told me to call you Simon, but it doesn't feel right in my mouth," he drawls, losing all the tightness in his tone, "So, do you have a middle name?” Simon knows that he’s only trying to divert his attention from the pain, but it works slightly. He manages to answer, though it’s short and he hears the frustration leaking back in through his voice.

  
“Snow.”

_**Baz** _

  
Snow, then. (That’s what he’ll call him, if it makes things easier.)

“That’s absolutely heinous. Who named you? You sound like a fairy tale character, Simon Snow.”

  
It’s the first time Baz has said his first name out loud. He hates how easily it fills his mouth and rolls over his tongue, but he’s glad to take the tension out of Snow’s shoulders for a second. It’s better that he controls his emotions and just works on focusing his magic. The last thing he wants is to lose his magic over this. 

  
He’s figuring that’s what happening to Snow now, so he tries to catch his eye and make him respond. His reply comes in a scoff, and he does look up at Baz now, eyes glinting with tears that haven’t started to fall. He raises an eyebrow, prompting him to explain what’s happening.

  
“My uh, magic won’t work, I don’t think. It’s um, I don’t – I’m not sure…”

  
Christ he can’t get a single sentence out. It makes Baz feel sorry for him, even though there’s contempt pulling the edges of his mouth into a frown. Salisbury isn’t looking at him anymore though; his eyes are trained on his knee again as he finally shuts his mouth. 

  
“Right, so…”

  
“I can’t.”

  
“You can’t?”

  
“My magic isn’t working. It hurts.”

  
Baz considers that for a second, the vulnerability behind what he’s saying. Certain truths are acceptable, he decides – the ones that’ll help them both. There’s no avoiding some things, but he can manage to keep himself hidden away for the most part. “The pain makes your magic hide itself away,” he says honestly.

  
Snow looks up at him again at that, eyes blown wide with fear. “How do you know that?”

  
Baz barely manages to tuck away his grimace before swallowing slowly. “It’s happened to my father.” 

  
It’s not a complete lie. Malcom had lost his magic, but only for a few days after Baz’s mother passed. It was a small stutter in his normal routine, really, compared to the months that Baz was left hollowed out from both his losses. He thinks about it only briefly, then puts the thought away so Snow won’t see the glaze in his eyes when he responds again. 

  
“Okay so, what do I do?” He asks, sounding a little unsure of the distant look that Baz is trying to cover up. 

  
“Wait for it to come back, I suppose,” Baz says calmly, trying to ignore the thought of losing his mom, the fear of losing so much magic. “But we’ll have to get moving already, if we ever want to get out of here.”

He shudders, imagining that type of loss with a body full like Snow’s. Like having the air taken from your lungs, or maybe drowning on dry land. It makes him clench his hands instinctively, pulling his magic up from his gut and focusing it right on the surface of his hand. Controlled, scorching heat; nothing like the smoky, heady feel of Snow’s magic. 

  
He stands stiffly, looking away from Snow’s frustrated face, still splotchy with tears. He opens his mouth to speak as he’s wiping fine sand from his trousers, but Snow beats him to it.

  
“How am I supposed to move anywhere? You can’t heal me and I can’t use my magic until I get better so…” He pauses expectantly, meeting Baz’s eyes, then narrowing his own. “Wait, are you only saying you can’t heal me so that I can’t escape?”

  
Baz, nerves already frayed from exposing the half truth about his magic, feels irritation roll through him _very_ quickly. He doesn’t bother to swallow it down this time. “I bloody well should leave you here, you know. You’re not exactly a big loss, are you?” 

  
Snow’s eyes narrow even more as he looks up at him, flaring brightly with anger and something else that Baz can’t place. It makes him more annoyed, but only barely. He’s right to say it, but looking at Snow’s face, he knows he shouldn’t have.

“ _God_ ,” he breathes, this angry little huffing noise, “you’re a right prick mate, you know that?” He keeps his eyes on Baz’s face, but they’re darting wildly between his features. “You can’t just assume that I don’t matter to anyone because of what I’ve done.” Baz quite disagrees with that, and Snow glances down, like he doesn’t quite believe it either. He still recovers quickly, fierce as ever to meet Baz’s eyes again. “We’re working together to get home, unless you do want to leave me to rot. I’ll find my way home one way or another, with or without you,” he says, voice low. It almost makes Baz regret saying anything.

It's not that Baz believes that no one cares about him, not really. Surely, someone does. But he can't begin to fathom how someone _could_.

Baz meets his stare. Snow watches him back, but his eyes are glazed in a way that tells Baz he’s somewhere else entirely. They’re blue, Baz notices then. His gaze catches the shade and holds onto it, trying to name it to keep from looking away. It works, apparently, as it draws a curse out of Snow’s mouth and he tilts his head down. Baz breathes haughtily, placing his annoyance before guilt and flipping through his mental catalogue of spells that he could use to move Snow around without jostling his leg too much. 

  
He doesn’t appreciate being called a prick, or being in this situation at all, but the sun is starting to leave a red stain on Snow’s nose and Baz is sure he’s doomed to the same fate unless they figure something out. He'd rather be murdered by an angry Snow than suffer a sunburn.

  
**_Simon_ **

  
The man (whose name he still doesn’t know) is muttering things under his breath, but Simon has no intentions of looking up to help him work through his frustrations. Simon’s not hopeless enough to think that _he_ could understand any of his actions, but to say that Simon is better off dead is too much. No one’s better off dead, and he knows that better than anyone. But it still cut a tad to hear it, to hear a stranger say it and _know_ he really believes it. It hurt just enough to force his silence. He figures the man won’t mind too much, and he wasn’t lying when he’d said that he could do it on his own – he can. 

  
Just as soon as he figures out how to work his magic around the pain. 

  
The pain had settled into a dull thrum before he’d gone and tried to force it out. Now his entire body is starting to burn beyond belief, and Simon has to hold his breath to keep from crying out every time he moves. The man’s still muttering to himself, and Simon begins to consider that maybe he’s setting him on fire, when all of a sudden, he turns to face Simon and whispers something.

  
The burning feeling starts under his body, then works up into his limbs. He starts to panic, trying to think of how to get up and run with a broken leg, when something pops up out of the sand. It’s an ugly red colored box, rising up slowly until Simon is sitting in it and the rest materializes just after it.

  
A red wagon, complete with four wheels and a handle. He chances a glance at the man. He doesn’t look like he feels bad for what he said, but the way his jaw is set tells Simon that he’s working forward again, anger left aside. He hides a smile as he observes the straight line of his mouth, the arch of his eyebrow and his eyes, glinting with a hidden smile. It makes Simon huff a little laugh, even if he is being made fun of. It softens him, and muddles the ugliness of earlier, even if just a bit. Penny’s voice rings in his head, something like “ _You’re too forgiving Simon, how will you survive in this world?_ ”

  
In this situation, she’d tell him to hold the grudge, to stay safe. _Don’t let your guard down; don’t trust him._

  
He ignores it.

  
“This is ridiculous, what’d you even spell?” He asks instead of saying the million spiteful things in his head. Pushing forward, as Mr. Salisbury would say. He doesn’t need an apology or anything like that; it’s enough just to have the man consider him enough to spell out a stupid wagon for him. He’s not offered many apologies anyway, he shouldn’t expect one from a stranger who doesn’t understand his motives. 

  
“Little red wagon,” he admits, and it makes Simon laugh harder despite himself. He knows that phrase actually. It’s a song that Ebb used to sing to him in the evenings when they’d lie in the hammock in the backyard together to watch the sun setting. She’d never used it as a spell though, not like this. He settles into a grin, humming the tune quietly as he shifts back carefully in the wagon. He opts to put his hands behind his head and glance up at the man. He looks far from amused, and it makes Simon bubble up with laughter again.

  
“Okay,” he says between giggles, “I’m assuming you’re pulling me along then?”

  
He gulps, eyes flicking between Simon and the stretch of flat horizon. “I suppose so Snow.”

  
“Alright then, carry on,” he grins, rubbing the stickiness from his face from the few tears earlier.

  
He’ll take it for now. He doesn’t have to do much anyway, he can afford to sit and think for a while. Maybe he’ll even get a nap in. The thought makes him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was, more filler than i anticipated. it is also way later than i wanted it to be. my apologies, life is hectic and i am stressed. thank y'all for the overwhelming support and love - every reader, kudos, comment, and bookmark makes me so incredibly happy. i promise a better chapter in the next run, anticipating about twenty chapters total (though that is a VERY rough estimate) and uhhh yeah thank you guys again, see you next update ! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all ! chapter six fresh, and longer than the rest ! friendly reminder that things are v stressful with the pandemic rn, but please be safe and make sure to keep calm <3 spring break is here and i hope to get more chapters out soon

_**Baz** _

  
“You look like a Nicholas maybe. Or a David.”

  
“ _Snow_.”

  
“Is your name also Simon Snow?”

  
“Be quiet, please.” 

  
Baz tries his best not to make it seem like he’s begging, but he can hear desperation leaking into his tone. The sun’s burning his head fiercely but he keeps his head down so his face doesn’t get sunburned. At this angle, he can see the curve of Snow’s smile, face tilted towards the bright sun. He doesn’t know how he’s enjoying it, smiling through it anyway, but he suspects that the healing spells he’s been whispering are helping some. 

  
Baz should really probably use a couple on himself. His feet are starting to hurt unbearably with all the sand slipping into his shoes. Snow noticed that he’s been pausing for longer between strides, slipping a hand into the front of his shoe to try and adjust it. 

  
Snow had argued with Baz to spell himself new ones for all of five minutes before giving up and going silent again, which lasted a blissful two minutes before he’d started to mutter names randomly. It was sometime after the third pause that Baz realized he’d been trying to guess his, since apparently, he hadn’t given it yet.

  
It had been good, at first, to know that he had _that_ over Snow at least. To have some anonymity. When he checks his mobile again though, and realizes it’s been nearly an hour of this, his frustration starts to turn into desperation.

  
It’s like pulling a child along. If that child were a six-foot-tall, highly elusive criminal, and extremely magical being. Not that they’ve talked about the magic bit yet.

  
“Abraham? No – _wait_ – it’s Phillip.”

  
“Neither. I don’t have a name,” he mutters back, ignoring the broad smile that he receives in return. Honestly, he smiles too much for his own good. Baz imagines he’d get a face cramp doing that as much as Snow does. It’s a whole show that he's putting on, starting at his jaw and ending at his eyes – a whole scrunch of the face.

  
“Hmmm,” Snow starts again. Baz is going to throw himself off the first cliff he finds. He'll leave Snow here in the heat with his busted leg and go somewhere with a mountain, somewhere cold. Looking around at the flat land around them, he stifles the groan bubbling up in his chest, while Snow hums to himself. 

  
“Is it Bartholomew?”

  
He stops walking abruptly so the wagon halts and Snow slides, bumping his shoulder against the edge.

  
“Did you do that because I figured it out?” He grins again, rubbing his shoulder as he asks. The smile on his face lessens any guilt Baz felt in the first place, and he continues pulling with a huff. 

  
“Did you know that I’m armed Snow? There’s no one around; no one to claim that I didn’t kill you in self-defense,” he remarks, watching Snow’s face to make sure he takes it as a joke. After earlier, Baz realizes that he needs things to run smoothly between he and Snow to get all the answers he needs, which are sitting quite literally, in front of him. He’d rather not take his chances on the fact that Snow could find his magic again and heal himself, stranding Baz in the desert by himself. 

  
The land around them is barren and everything’s one solid color – the sky, blue with a few clouds. Nothing but tan sand and rocks and the occasional small, brown shrub. He’s hoping he’ll be able to conjure some water up when they find somewhere to stay the night, but his magic is starting to fray from the healing spells and all his worry.  
Snow pulls him from his thoughts before they start to edge into something he can’t back out of. “So, what about Robert, then?”

Baz groans out loud this time. Snow laughs quietly and grunts, as Baz stops the wagon yet again. 

_**Simon** _

  
The sun is absolutely lovely, if Simon’s being honest with himself. It’s been so long since he’s gotten to feel the actual sunshine on his skin and he can’t get enough of it. He almost doesn’t feel the pain in his leg anymore; it’s that good. Where they stand right now is quite lovely too. For the horrible situation they’re in, he finds the silence rather peaceful. The sun’s probably the worst part, and it's really only bothering the man (Bartholomew?) because he keeps pulling at his collar before he chucks his jacket off altogether. 

  
Simon nearly screams when he leaves it in the sand behind them, (it looks more expensive than all of his possessions put together), but the man just mumbles something about replacing it when they get back. He swallows the pang that runs through his chest at the idea of leaving behind something so expensive, and focuses again on figuring out his name. 

  
“Coriander?”

  
“Like the kitchen spice, Snow?”

  
Simon hadn’t known it was a spice, but he nods anyway. “It’s that, right?” He asks, trying to contain his grin as the man releases yet another huff, “Your accent is posh enough; your name’s got to be ridiculous to balance it out.” This time, he braces his on the wagon just before he feels it stop.

  
“If I tell you my name, can we move on from the topic?” 

  
Simon assumes that the conversation topic that he wants to move towards is _magic_ , and no thank you. Simon knows that the moment the conversation comes up, they’ll start arguing again. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with ignoring the bigger problem – Simon’s done it all his life.

  
“No. What about Turmeric?”

  
“ _Christ_. Do you think my name is Turmeric?”

  
Simon hums, turning back to observe. The man’s face goes rigid under Simon’s gaze, but he lets his eyes linger, watching despite his discomfort. He’s got long dark hair that’s gelled back to show off a sharp widow’s peak, and thick, arched eyebrows. High cheekbones and full, pale lips. He very well could be named Turmeric…

  
“Well?”

  
“No, not Turmeric,” he decides, then sits up a bit straighter. “Barry. Final answer.” The man screws up his face in response and mutters something about jazz under his breath. Simon follows along with it, trying not to show his confusion. “ _Jazz_?” Simon echoes, a question.

  
“Razzmatazz,” the man says. Something like amusement crosses his face for an instant.

“Pizzazz,” Simon replies. The man furrows his eyebrows. “ Is it Vaz?” 

  
Simon nearly falls out of the cart this time when it stops. His shoulder aches from the impact, and it jostled his leg enough to send pain shooting up again. “Ow, what the hell, mate?” He turns back and sees him blank-faced, hands off the handle entirely. The man clears his throat, tugs on his shirt collar and then grabs the handle again, like nothing ever happened. Simon sees the clench of his jaw and takes the hint. “Vaz, then?” Simon murmurs hopefully, interest peaking at the very clear “no” that he receives in response. 

  
“Kaz?” 

  
“Snow,” he says, and Simon turns back just in time to see him shake his head minutely.

  
“Baz?” He hears the sighed “yes?” and very pointedly does not ignore it.

  
He’s grinning so wide; he almost doesn’t feel the pain in his leg anymore. “Baz,” he says again, just because he can. “Shut up Snow,” says Baz. 

_**Baz** _

  
He does shut up, much to Baz’s relief. His advantage lasted all of an hour though. _Stupid Fiona_ , he thinks, cursing her for only enjoying one children’s movie in all her life, and double cursing her for it being _Bee Movie_.

  
He supposes he didn’t have to tell Snow his name, or at least confirm it. But it’s not so awful to have Snow know his name, really. At least now that he’s quiet, Baz only has to worry about the heat (which decreased a bit when he took off his jacket.) He entertains the idea of walking around in just his pants but changes his mind when he glances down at Snow, who’s finally closed his eyes. 

  
Baz realizes suddenly that they’ll probably have to sleep in shifts. He pictures the mess of a sunburn coupled with dark circles on his face and cringes to himself, before realizing that Snow’s opened his eyes again, and he’s watching him carefully as Baz makes faces to himself. The blue of his eyes is so intense that Baz can’t even see the sky reflected in his irises, and for a second, he stares back trying to find the clouds in the reflection. A look passes over Snow’s face, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Baz snaps out of it fast, breaking the silence first. “You’re sunburned, Snow.” 

  
The look fades away as he frowns up at Baz, tapping his cheek with an index finger to check for the burn. His eyes cross as he tries to look at his nose, then his frown deepens when he realizes he can’t see it. “So are you, Baz,” he says. Baz isn't. He notices that his hands fly up to grab the edge of the wagon as he says it, which makes him scoff. 

  
“I don’t have the energy to stop so often just to watch you suffer," he snaps, tugging the handle roughly anyway.

  
“I know, just being careful,” he replies with a gentle tone. The glint in his eyes is humor, so Baz doesn’t worry so much about being so sharp. _It’ll make it easier to finish this_ , he thinks, _if he gets used to me_. The thought makes his stomach turn. They’ll get there, eventually, to a point when they need to end this. But for now he needs to stop cataloguing the useless things he notices about him. 

  
He takes care not to notice the way Snow has started to adjust to their communication, and he doesn't notice the way he stopped looking so outraged every time Baz raises his voice now. Or how quickly he recovers from the change of pace in their stunted conversation now. He doesn’t notice at all that he’s started to rise to the challenge, less anger in his tone, like he’s trying to win an argument more so than defend himself. 

  
Baz gets paid to notice everything though – he’d be a shit detective if he didn’t. So, really, he can’t help that it piques his interest that Snow’s easily adaptable. At first, his answer is revulsion.

_Of course, he’s adaptable. He’s a criminal._ Like that explains his every action and response. 

  
The second thought is equally horrifying, but it jumps across his mind before he can shake it out. 

  
_There must be more to him than that._

  
He doesn’t bother to respond to Snow, simply humming and tugging at his damp collar.

_**Simon** _

  
Baz looks like he’s about to combust into flames – his face is starting to turn red from the heat, and he’s breathing pretty heavily. Simon nearly volunteers to get out and push it himself, then remembers his leg, and keeps quiet. He’s been trying to keep the peace to make this work, so he snaps his mouth closed before he can offer. Baz'd probably scoff at him and leave him behind, which he doesn't want. Even if he’s starting to feel uncomfortable with how decent Baz is to be around. Or more so that Simon's realizing he's not a _complete_ prick. He realizes sometime when they’re both quiet that he can already read his tone, and knows that the undercurrent in his voice is more frustration than anger.

  
When he thinks about it, he nearly picks a fight, just to keep the gap between them. Because if they’re arguing, it means Simon doesn’t get to know these things, or how to use them against Baz. It’s not that he wants to use them, that’s just how his mind is wired. He’s used to reading the situation and then doing everything he can to escape. It’s how he was raised – Penny’s told him herself that it’s not his fault. He looks at Baz, worried all of a sudden that it’s obvious what he’s thinking.

  
Baz meets his eyes as he stops the cart slowly, which nearly gives him a stroke, before bending down to fuss with his shoes again. Simon lets out a short breath of relief when he doesn’t say anything, and then another when they start moving again. It’s slight, but his pace has slowed down and he’s limping barely. Simon rests his chin on his arm and peers over the edge of the wagon to look at his shoes.

  
They’re these ugly slip-on loafers with a gold band sitting across the top. Simon nearly suggests that he throw them just like the jacket, but notes that the sand is probably much hotter than the sunlight is. Baz slows again, but doesn’t stop as he tucks one finger under the band and tugs with a grimace. 

  
Simon can’t hold it back, then. “Take them off?” He says, but it comes out a question more than an order. He makes a noise like a grunt that Simon takes as a no. Simon blows out a slow breath. “Do they hurt?” He asks again, ignoring the eye roll Baz shoots at him to mutter, “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  
Baz lets out something like a snort, bending down to grab a handful of sand. He startles Simon by holding his hand out, rolling his eyes again. “Give me your hand, Snow.” He says it calmly, almost like he knows he’s asking too much. It is too much for Simon, when he can't gauge the level of trust between them yet. His thoughts turn together, over and over, as he sticks his hand out slowly. Baz grabs his fingers gently and turns his hand over until his palm is facing up, then pours the sand over his wrist. 

  
It burns just enough for Simon to wince, but he doesn’t snatch his hand back until Baz drops it. There’s a small red spot on his skin from the sand. Then, he watches with wide eyes as Baz whispers something, feeling a different kind of burn coiling around his wrist before it disappears entirely. He feels something flutter in his stomach all of a sudden when he matches the burn of his magic to the way his leg is burning. Guilt curls around his brain when he realizes he hasn't been hurting because he's been getting spelled.

  
“Was the point of that to show off your magic?” Simon asks weakly, instead of asking what he needs to. _Why?_ He clutches his wrist to his chest as if it still burns. He can still feel the residual hum of it under his skin and guilt pooling in his head, and in that moment, he misses his magic terribly. He briefly registers Baz respond something about the sand being too hot to step on, but he’s going numb, all of a sudden. 

  
For a horrible, disorienting, second, his magic is a missing limb. He can feel the absence, a hole in his sternum, filling with nothing. He can feel Baz’s eyes on him, and see his mouth moving, but Simon can’t hear a single thing he’s saying. He smells smoke, only vaguely, and realizes distantly that it’s probably him before his thoughts ground out with a blink.

  
_**Baz** _

  
Baz is somewhere in the middle of explaining that the sand is scorching, (and debating whether or not to tell him that these shoes were over a thousand pounds,) when Snow's eyes haze over. He smells like thick, heavy smoke all of a sudden and it makes fear shoot icy through Baz's chest. Yes, he is a criminal. But Baz realizes, as Snow is (possibly) dying, that he doesn’t want him to die, not at all. He panics a bit when he realizes that he’s not responding, waving his hand in front of Snow’s eyes before tapping his cheek gently. He stays still, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.

Baz is awfully confused, and mostly scared. This is something that he probably should have thought of, in the list of topics they need to discuss. He doesn’t want to be alone, carrying a corpse around trying to get home like this. Trying to explain what happened when he gets back. His mind runs and he keeps his fingers pressed into Snow's jaw as he shakes his head gently back and forth.

  
He feels a discomforting warmth curling around his feet, all of a sudden, and it shocks him enough to move back. He whips his head down wildly, eyes widening when he sees that his shoes are gone. In their place are a pair of bright green running shoes. Crowley. 

  
Snow jerks his head forward and gasps, like he’s just come out of water. His hand comes up to feel his jaw, staring at Baz. He's shocked still, looking between his feet and Snow’s wide eyes. They’re clear again, and a brighter blue than they were before, somehow. “Shoes,” he starts, but his throat squeaks and kills his voice. “You…” Snow looks up at him at the sound of his voice, breath levelling a bit as smoke clears off his skin. A grimace spreads across his face when he looks down to see the shoes on Baz’s feet. 

_**Simon** _

  
Okay. This is progress. Baz looks horrified (his mouth is gaping), which Simon feels a bit sorry for. But also, he’s fucking done it. It nearly paralyzed him to try and he feels a bit sick. Also, he didn’t really do it voluntarily, but he feels the small victory bubble up in his chest anyway. He looks between Baz’s face and the shoes, trying to swallow his expression and speak. “Well,” Simon tries, clearing his throat when he realizes how thick his voice had gotten while he blanked out, “Do you like them, then?”

  
Baz only responds once he hears Simon’s voice, eyes blinking fast before focusing on his face. “This is a great time to talk about magic, isn’t it?”

  
Simon’s smile melts off his face and he drops his hand from his jaw, fingers twitching. He watches Baz follow his hand with his gaze, narrowing his eyes. “Snow,” he says, voice quiet and tight, and Simon's breath spikes, “I just watched you almost die. This is something we need to discuss if we are to get out of this.” 

  
He keeps his eyes trained on Baz’s and notices for the first time that they’re grey. The muted, pale shade is an odd contrast to the harsh cut of his eye shape, he thinks. His eyelashes are so dark it's like he's wearing eyeliner, and it makes the color close to translucent. For a second, he loses his train of thought, then blinks back.

  
He doesn’t even know what he’s scared of, not really. It would help to talk about it, probably. The thought of Baz using it against him makes the sick feeling come stronger, but his expression is too unreadable for Simon to find reassurance there. He holds his gaze until he sees something shift in Baz's eyes, and then he can breathe again, for a second.

  
He turns away and nods, not trusting himself to speak until Baz does. He looks unimpressed when he realizes that Simon’s not going to say anything, but grabs the wagon handle again and takes a light step. He scoffs, looking down at the shoes and rocking forward onto his toes, before he starts walking. “Come on, Snow. We really don’t have all day,” he mutters, voice still strained enough for Simon to know that he's still feeling _something_ about earlier. He can't quite tell if it's anger or not, so he keeps as possible.

  
“Oh,” Simon says, finding his voice but not knowing what else to say. Baz gives him the same blank stare. “That was a joke,” he says slowly, then adds, “Obviously,” as if Simon couldn’t tell. He’s silent for another minute, wondering where to start exactly. 

  
“Okay,” he breathes, swiping a hand across his cheek, “What do you want to know?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all , back with another chapter of ITA ! thank you guys for the overwhelming support on this and my other latest fic (i cried honest tears of happiness seeing all the love for that lol)
> 
> stick with me, this one's finally getting somewhere - apologies for the very, very slow burn (it is the only thing i know)

_**Baz** _

Snow asks the question that opens up everything that Baz needs to know, and he has absolutely no idea where to start.

  
What _does_ he want to know?

  
For all the questions that have been in his head this whole time, he can’t think of a single one to ask. There must be an order to it; a way for all his questions to lead smoothly into the next without being overwhelming. He’s spent enough time as a detective to know _that_ at least. After the few hours he's spent wiht Snow, he knows that provoking him is easy, and that he gets defensive when he feels threatened.

  
The irony of the situation is striking, but he can’t figure out how to approach this one. He thinks it may just be because he has to work with Snow to get anywhere instead of against him, and he's not used to that. He extensively reminds himself that it has nothing to do with pity, but even the thought has him flushing. He peeks down to check if Snow’s already noticed his flustered expression, but he’s staring straight ahead and chewing on his cheek. He looks like he’s somewhere else, not in his own head right now. Baz can’t blame him, but he'd like to know why every time magic comes up, it's like flicking off the lights in Snow's expression.

  
He takes advantage of the distraction to mull over the thoughts in his head. There are basis questions, like the ones ones his therapist asked him after his mother had passed and he’d lost his magic. 

  
_“When did you first realize you had magic, Basil?”_   
_“When were you able to control it?”_   
_“What kind of magic is it?” She’d asked with a soft smile, picking up her hand to show how her fingertips glowed. “Mine is light.”_

  
He’d been eleven at the time, but she’d spoken to him like he was a child. He supposes he _was_ a child, but it felt unnerving in a way. Too saccharine to be sincere, too gentle. He never got over the sick feeling in his stomach at the sound of her voice, no matter how many times he went to see her. The roll of the wagon wheels is faint as he thinks the questions over in his mind, slowly figuring out which things are essential to know for the time being. He only waits a few minutes more to let Snow sort out his thoughts before he starts speaking again.

  
“Snow.”

  
“Yeah?” He clears the rasp from his voice and asks again, softer this time, “Yes?”

  
“Okay?”

_Shit_. He hadn't meant to ask, but the rough sound of his voice had concern slipping from Baz's mouth before he could stop it. 

  
“Fine.”

  
“Okay.”

_**Simon** _

  
Simon’s heart thuds in his chest at the question. He is the furthest thing from okay right now, and he’s not sure why. Also, he doesn’t think Baz meant to ask him if he was okay, if the straight face he’s making means anything. They’re not on the best terms, and the most he expects for either of them to be civil.

  
It feels like crossing a line to ask, because he shouldn’t _care_ about Simon being okay. He lets his eyes roll upwards, chances a glance at Baz’s face and finds the clench of his jaw comforting. It was probably just a slip of the tongue then. 

  
He’s completely aware of when Baz starts speaking again, too unnvered by his checking in to let himself be caught off guard. “When did you first figure out that you have magic?” 

  
“When I was eight. I’d been walking with my –” he pauses, “mentor. He didn’t see me coming in behind him so he slammed the door on my fingers, probably broke them, actually. The pain was so bad that I just kept wishing that it never happened. Regretting it, I guess, and all of a sudden, the pain was gone.”

  
Simon takes a breath, debating whether or not to mention how Mr. Salisbury had been more cautious with him from then on, training him to start collecting for the people in the months after. He wonders how Baz would take that, if it’d be considered relevant to his case. 

  
“And your mentor?” Baz asks, “Does he have magic as well to heal your hand? Or, what did he do before you fixed it?”

  
Simon cringes a bit at the question. “He doesn’t like to coddle me,” he says slowly, carefully, “He thinks it makes for a weak man; it’s better for me to figure things out on my own.” It’s not a direct answer, but it’s enough to get a reaction. He can tell Baz doesn’t like it from the harsh breath he lets out, too muffled to be a scoff, but clear enough. 

  
He doesn’t say anything else, thankfully. Simon can stop himself from arguing for himself just fine, but he can’t help but come to Mr. Salisbury’s defense. He’s practically Simon’s father, and Simon won't tolerate disrespect towards family (even if the only people who he considers family aren't actually related to him.) 

  
“Right,” he says, voice still too tight, “Okay, what kind of magic do you have?” 

  
“Um…” Simon blinks up at him. “What kind?”

  
“There are different types, Snow. It doesn’t mean that you’re limited to that type of spell, but it allows you to focus on specific spells.”

  
Simon thinks, nodding and playing with his fingers. “What’s yours? Cause, I have no clue about mine to be honest.”

  
When he doesn’t respond immediately, Simon shifts around to look at him. He meets Baz’s eyes, watching as he holds his hand up to his face and streams of fire swirl between his fingers. “I can do this easier than anyone else with magic, unless they’ve also got fire magic.” He pauses for a second to look away from Simon before meeting his eyes again. 

"Wicked," Simon says quietly. His ears flush when Baz looks at him quizzically, a hint of a smile in his eyes. 

  
“I knew someone who had light magic. She could make her fingers look like mini torches, or make her whole skin glow like a glow stick,” he laughs gently. His whole face changes for a split second as Simon watches, like someone's flicked a light switch on in a house that’s been dark for ages. 

  
Simon's first instinct is to be irrationally bitter, irritation coursing through him. _Of course, he’s got a bloody nice smile to go with every other posh thing about him._

  
He can feel his expression sour, hoping that Baz won’t notice and call him on it. Really though, he's more scared of showing the surprise on his face. This change in his expression, the _laugh_ , was more unexpected than Simon was ready for. He turns away rigidly, and says, “I don’t know what kind of magic I have. But my mentor says I have a lot of it.” 

_**Baz** _

  
“We’ll figure it out later,” he says, instead of asking Snow why his face has gone white, and why he won’t meet his eyes anymore. He figures it might be worth it to ask, but the sun is starting to drop and he isn’t satisfied with the flat land surrounding them. Surely there’s a boulder or a cliff face or _something_ around them to shelter up against.

  
He flexes his fingers on the cart, flipping through his thoughts for a growth spell to make it a shelter of some sort. They could poke holes in it for air to get through and Baz could try to conjure up a mosquito net to cover the openings from any insects. Snow’s voice breaks through his thoughts, an insistent hum demanding to be heard.

“Anything else?” He asks, somewhat defensively. “I’m sure there’s a lot to cover on the subject matter.”

  
Baz refuses to start an argument, catching Snow's tone and disregarding it. “A few things, but I’ll ask one right now and save the rest for later, so we can figure out the sleeping arrangements.”

  
“Alright.”

He still won’t meet his eyes. Strange, considering he wouldn’t look away from him before. Probably to gauge his expression and catch some expression, learn to read him to escape. Though, that could be Baz just being unfair. _Or maybe_ , says the skeptic part of his brain, the weak part, _he just likes eye contact, Basil. Like a normal person._

  
Baz thinks for half a second about the next question so he doesn’t ask Snow about his eye contact preferences. Crowley, that’d be embarrassing.

  
“How do you cast spells without words? Or how do you make normal words magical?” 

  
Snow shrugs, finally looking back up at Baz. “Don’t know. I’ve always been able to do that, since I first started using it.” He looks bored as he says it, oblivious to Baz’s surprise.

“Always?”

  
A nod, and then, “Yeah. Mr. Salisbury, my mentor, told me that I don’t need an actual spell. As long as the words have enough intention behind them, and the right amount of magic, anything can be a spell.”

  
They’re both silent for a long while, only the muted roll of the wheels filling the quiet between them. “That’s it? For questions?” Simon asks quietly, tucking his head against his knees in the cart. Baz considers pouring out the rest now, but he figures they should get settled before the suns sets. “For now, yes. I don’t want to risk anything eating us while the sun is going down.”

  
Baz had been putting off everything besides moving forward and asking questions, but at the mention of eating, he thinks of drinking. Sweat slides down his neck in an uncomfortable reminder that he hasn’t had water since they were back in Watford, and it’s been far too long. His skin is starting to feel clammy as he walks, palms slipping on the smooth handle of the wagon. He calls upon Merlin and Morgana and hopes desperately that he’ll have enough magic at the end of the day to cast for water. 

_**Simon** _

  
It’s when they’ve both been quiet for a while that Simon realizes how hungry he is. He’s just been sitting here in the cart and he feels like he’s starving, so he can’t imagine how Baz’s appetite must’ve worked up by now. Except, there’s no food anywhere, not from what Simon can see. A lot of tiny rocks and mostly sand everywhere. The tiniest brown shrub poking out of the ground, but not a single animal. There’s no way they’ll make it past two nights if they don’t find something. 

  
Especially water, he thinks now that he sneaks a second glance at Baz. His skin’s practically showing through his shirt with all the sweat. His face and neck are flushed and Simon’s pretty sure that he’s panting a bit. Surely, water is something that Baz can magic up, if Simon can’t control his own power. _Food_ _too_ , he thinks hopefully, as his stomach growls. Baz stops for the first time since Simon conjured him up new shoes, but Simon’s preoccupied in his own head. He can’t think of anything except how hungry he is, how his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth. 

  
The idea of having to wait for water for longer makes him ache; a shiver follows up his body all of a sudden, making his gasp quietly. He can hear Baz clear his throat above him like he’s about to speak, but his mind is running on repeat, and then there’s _thunder_. Another shiver rolls through him as his head whips up to look at the sky. It’s still a calm, pale blue, with a few white clouds streaked through. Nothing’s changed, but he’s sure he heard it, clear as day. When he hears it again, louder this time, he turns back just in time to see something like surprise register on Baz’s face.

  
It’s the first expression Simon’s caught – both eyebrows shooting up over wide eyes, a slight twitch of his jaw. His shoulders rise a bit like a flinch or a sharp breath, but he’s not sure which it is. Simon wonders briefly if surprise is his only emotion, or if maybe he’s secretly expressive when no one’s looking, but doesn’t have time to think about either of those things. It’s louder this time, closer, and he’s just about to ask Baz if he hears it too, (he really hopes that he’s not the only one hearing it) when he sees the tinge of grey in the air above their heads.

  
It’s swirling up into this dense mass of something, Simon’s not sure. He watches as Baz looks over his head, looking for the source of the noise. His eyes are squinting like he’s confused, but there’s something else swirling in his expression. _Fear?_

  
Heat spreads across Simon’s body, catching and hooking in his gut. He nearly doubles over with how uncomfortable it is, but straightens up to catch Baz’s eye. 

“Baz?”

  
“It hardly rains in the Gobi,” he mutters, more to himself than Simon. 

  
“So –”

Simon registers his gaze, harsh and imploring as he turns to ask, “How do you feel right now Snow?”

  
“Uh, hungry.” He hesitates, not liking the urgency in Baz’s face, the suggestion in his tone. “Hot, like on the inside. And in my chest.”

  
Another rumble of thunder, and the mass above their heads becomes thicker, a dark grey color now. “ _Crowley_ ,” Baz says, but it’s drowned out by more thunder. The mass – clouds, Simon realizes, as another wave of chills shudder through him– splits open and rain pours down over their heads.

_**Baz** _

  
The rain is absolutely _freezing_. “Hell, Snow, turn them off!”

  
“I can’t!” he yells back, “I don’t even know why this is happening!”

  
“Surely it’s your magic! What were you thinking about before this?”

  
He freezes, mouth gaping open as the clouds grow darker, before they pour down even harder. “Snow,” he growls, reaching a hand up to try and bat the clouds away.

  
“No wait,” he says, eyes wide. “Watch.” Baz does, as Snow turns his head upward and opens his mouth. _Idiot_. _A smart one, though._

  
“What are you doing, Snow? He asks, only because he needs to say _something_. He’s drinking it down in big gulps, swallowing ridiculously, like a cartoon character. It makes Baz feel off kilter, seeing him doing something so mundane in the least simple situation in the world. He’d laugh if he could muster the sound, but his mouth is too dry to do much beyond speaking.

“Drinking,” he says, once he stops, playing along like it isn't obvious. He cups his hands and lets the water pool there, pressing his face into his hands. He’s got a point. Baz is soaked with sweat and even though the water was unpleasantly cold at first, it's starting to feel nice on his overheated skin. He tips his head back and sighs, letting his mouth fall open to drink.

  
“Uh, Baz?” 

  
He stops drinking at the sound of his name, at the tone of Snow’s voice.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Can we wait until this passes before we start moving again?” Baz doesn’t even have time to quirk an eyebrow before he starts blathering again, “It’s just. We don’t know how long it’ll be until I _malfunction_ again," a pause, and he wrinkles his nose like he doesn't like how that sounds, "and we should try and collect some water for as long as it lasts.”

  
_Smart idiot indeed._

  
“Alright Snow, we can rest.”

  
A smile breaks out across his face as he tilts his head back again, just letting the droplets roll off. Baz’s fingers twitch when he notices them collecting on his eyelashes. It’s the type of thing he wishes he could photograph, just to be able to look back on it and laugh at whole bizarre the whole thing is. Also, he looks like he belongs in one of his mother's old paintings, hair turning darker and falling onto his forehead in damp curls. Like oil paint, he thinks ridiculously, before he can get his thoughts in order.

  
“Why are you twitching?” Simon asks, abruptly ending Baz’s mental train wreck.

  
He snaps out of it and meets Snow’s eyes. His head is still tilted back but now he’s focused on Baz again, peering out from beneath his eyelashes. Crowley. Just like when he went off and spelled those horrendous shoes on Baz’s feet, his magic is lingering in the air, smoky and sticky. It’s making something stir in his chest, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. He wonders, suddenly, irrationally, if Snow can hear it. He looks away from Snow, drawing in a deep breath and cupping his hands to catch the water. He splashes it on the back of his neck and lets his shirt get soaked, trying to wash away the residue of his magic. 

  
Baz thinks of another question for Snow suddenly, something that he should’ve asked a while ago. _What the hell are you?_

  
“Let’s figure out what we’re going to do for sleep Snow,” he says, instead of admitting how intrigued he is by the sheer power in Simon Snow. That’d be disastrous if they got into it, and looking at Snow’s smug face each time he defies himself and uses his magic, he knows he’d never let him live it down.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baz and simon share the same train of thought, except simon's oblivious as baz is hopeless. magic sharing ensues, and neither of them is quite prepared for it.

_**Simon**_

  
The rain starts to slow the tiniest bit when Baz casts a water holding spell. The air around his hands starts to shimmer like a bubble, making the space between look all wavy, before coming off with a pop. Simon bites his lip to hold back his gasp when it starts to absorb the water around them, filling quickly and expanding as it collects more. He nearly says something, but remembers the face Baz has made when he’d said _wicked_. He cringes a bit, thankful that Baz is too focused on shrinking the bubble to notice the way his face screws up.

  
It feels strange, really. He can feel his magic still hanging in there, the way it does when he gets so overwhelmed that it spills out everywhere. Penny says it doesn’t affect her much, but there are days when he walks in to the café and she takes a deep breath when they hug, like she can smell it on him. She’s always a bit kinder on those days, and her eyes always take on this hazy sort of look by the time he’s getting ready to leave, so yeah, she’s probably just too nice to chastise him. He sneaks looks at Baz to see if it’s affecting him, but his eyes are clear. He's avoiding Simon’s gaze though, which is reasonable considering that they’re not exactly supposed to be friendly.

  
He forgets that when they talk, sometimes. He catches himself saying too much, feeling too at ease, which makes him freeze up again to redeem himself. But even after that, he’s back again, offering too many truths when he’s asked and letting his eyes fall closed far too easily. He should probably be more careful, but his blood isn’t rushing through him like it usually does when he’s anxious. It’s not quite enough to make him trust Baz, but it’s enough to lull him a bit. He’s focusing on the cart now, squinting his eyes to see through the steady drizzle still coming down from the clouds.

  
He chances a glance at Baz again, lips spilling out, "What are you doing?" before he can stop himself.

  
Simon receives a grunt in response. He sighs, tipping his head back again to enjoy the cold droplets on his face. Baz is muttering under his breath again, something about _bed space_ and _growth_ , but Simon doesn't feel like talking if Baz is going to ignore him. He takes the time to breathe and sort his thoughts out, dragging his hands through his hair to ground himself. Things feel as alright as they can right now. He’ll take it all one step at a time, and then they’ll get home again – Simon knows it won’t be smooth but he’d rather not think about it. His mind tangles up in the idea that the only way to win in this case is for Baz to lose, and he hates it instantly. He hopes that it'll be easy, that no one will have to lose, but...

Why does it matter? 

_It doesn't_ , he reminds himself. _Not beyond getting home and never being in trouble again_. 

_Do what you must_ , his mind whispers, not in his own voice. Then, _it matters for a reason._

He doesn't want to find out.

_**Baz** _

  
There’s a spell that he could use to make the cart bigger, but it takes too much energy - so much more than he has right now. He hasn’t slept properly for the past two weeks after having to work on this infuriating case and on top of that, he’s not exactly in the best shape to trek several miles in the hot desert. Not in these clothes at least. He wonders how cold it gets at night, whether he’ll need them or if he can just magic something else up. Snow probably could, with all the magic burning up around them.

  
He’s been rather quiet while Baz thinks. He’s just laying back, letting the rain drip down his chin and soak his shirt. It’s already so wet that it’s clinging to him, sticking close as his chest rises with each breath. “If it gets cold tonight and your shirt isn’t dry, you’ll catch something Snow.”

  
He looks up at Baz then, and there's something in his eyes, but he blinks it away. He smiles then, and it looks like the smile he’d thrown at him in the house (and was that really only a day ago?) Baz pulls out his mobile to check but finds it dead. Snow waits until he’s put it back in his pocket to answer, shifting to tug his shirt away from his skin as Baz watches intently. 

  
“I don’t get cold that easily, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Baz raises an eyebrow, eyes still stuck on his hand pinching the edge of his shirt. He forces his eyes up to meet Snow’s when he realizes how long he’s been staring. He’s raising both eyebrows at him, trying to mimic Baz and failing. He's smiling, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

  
“It might get extremely cold,” he replies smoothly, forcing himself to look away from Snow entirely. 

  
“Well, that’s how deserts work anyway. Hot during the day and freezing at night, right?”

  
“Right.”

  
“So, just give it a while,” Simon says slowly, like he’s thinking right before each word gets out, “and you’ll get stronger with rest. Then we can make a fire or something.”

  
Baz looks at him just in time to catch his expression change when he starts speaking again. “Or, if you’re too tired, I can try whatever I’ve been doing. The whole" his voice falters, "exploding thing. Or whatever it is." Baz picks up on his nervousness, shaking his head. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Snow.” The reassurance clears his expression, and he smiles again, a tentative, _real_ thing.

 _Thank you_ , his face says. 

  
The rain slows as he takes a breath in, and then stops entirely when he breathes out a sigh. His entire face lights up with a flush when Baz looks up pointedly, then back at him. He glances upwards for a second before looking back at Baz.

For a terrible, distressing second, Baz questions whether Simon's never been caught because he's so charming. Every criminal that he's encountered is cunning; swift and arrogant. It's a facade to distract the victim until they can make their escape, and it can be dangerously attractive. This is different though. It's like Snow's completely unaware of it, and it's infinitely more disarming to Baz. He's almost _endearing,_ and Baz has to remind himself of who he really is, what he's capable of. He feels disgust course through him, trying to clear it so it doesn't leak into his words. His blood runs cold when he realizes that it's not Snow who he's disgusted by, not even close.

He needs to open his mouth, make some scathing remark to remind himself that they're on opposite sides of a very tall fence, but Simon beats him to it. 

"I hope your bag collected enough water," he says, like a perfectly nonchalant idiot.

"I'm sure it did," Baz replies smoothly, before ducking his head down to look at the wheels of the cart instead of Snow.

 _It’s just an observation_ , he thinks, but there are warning alarms going off in his head telling him to get through this as fast as he can.

_**Simon** _

  
Something's happened between them, just now. Nothing good, or, that’s how it feels on his end. He’s not sure what he's done this time to warrant being ignored, but Baz is back to blocking him out, muttering to himself _again_.

“So,” Simon says, because he’d rather they talk than fall into one of their silent lapses again, “you’re trying to figure out how to spell the wagon bigger, right?” 

  
“I am,” he says, brows furrowed. He doesn't look up as he says, “I didn’t tell you that though.” 

  
“I figured from how you’ve been saying _growth_ under your breath for the past ten minutes.”

  
Baz falters for just a moment, running a hand through his hair before fixing a glare on Simon.

  
“I could have been cursing you yet again, Snow. How do you know that I haven’t been saying _oaf_?”

  
It should have annoyed him – it did earlier, when Baz had been glaring at him with contempt. Now, he’s unwavering. He bristles a bit at his tone, but the insults serve as a helpful reminder to stay careful. Stay ahead of him, breathe in and out, once then twice. It sates his nerves to remember himself, but it does nothing for the slow curiosity burning circles in his head.

  
He wants to know _why_. Suddenly, the only thing that matters is finding out if he insults automatically, out of defense to hide something, or if it’s just to remind himself that they can’t be friendly. Simon wants to ask, wants to understand so badly that it makes his fingers clench. It's reassuring though, that Baz might be trying to hold onto himself too. _I can't shut you out alone_ , Simon thinks, and regrets it fucking _immediately_ as the thought joins the loop in his mind.

He shrugs instead, forcing his reply to stay in his head.

  
It throws Baz off, and he just stares for a second before he readjusts, smoothing his surprise over.

  
“I wasn’t. You’re right.” His voice is quiet as he considers Simon.

  
“Right…” he says when Baz is silent for another long moment. He doesn’t look away until Simon clears his throat and drops the eye contact.

  
“Can you stand, or do you need my help to get out?” Baz asks finally.

  
“I could. Er, get out on my own, I mean. Let me just-”

  
He takes a deep breath and puts his hands on either side of him. He forces his other leg to bend, ignoring the pain that flashes through him for a second. Baz says something under his breath and the ache disappears. 

  
“Thanks,” he grits out, tensing as he tries to lift himself without using his leg. 

_**Baz**_

  
The same man who’d been about to throw himself from an open window a while ago is now struggling to lift himself from a cart, honestly.

The third time he curses, Baz walks over to him, focusing whatever's left of his draining magic into his palms. He's exhausted, but not enough that he'll risk slowing them down more. 

“Stop moving,” he snaps, as Snow continues to squirm. He rolls his eyes in response and puts his hands up slowly, looking at Baz skeptically. 

  
“Won’t it still hurt just as bad if _you_ move me?”

  
He ignores him and places his hand on Snow’s leg, letting his magic pour out over it. His eyes widen at the feel of Baz’s magic on his knee, which should be going numb if he's done this right. 

  
“ _Oh_ ,” Snow sighs, eyes closing as a smile spreads across his face. “I can’t even feel it anymore.”

  
Baz swallows hard at his reaction, convincing himself that he's only feeling relief as he takes his hand off. The magic should hold long enough to get him out properly, but he still moves fast to get around and behind Snow. He takes a breath, then slides his hands under Snow’s arms. They both go rigid at the contact, and Baz squeezes before he tugs upwards. He realizes too late that they’re both still soaked with rain water, and his grip slips a bit, knocking his chin against Snow’s head.

  
With a wince (Baz) and a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh (Simon), he lifts him up, careful not to push his leg in any way. He’s basically standing up in the cart now, using one leg to prop himself up and being careful not to step with his other leg. 

  
“Okay, now we’re going to turn.”

  
Snow lets out a sound of surprise, just as Baz untucks his arms, grabbing his waist and turning him to face him now. Snow loses his balance, tipping forward and letting out a stifled yell into Baz’s chest, hands coming up to grab Baz’s shoulders. He barely manages to stay upright as he walks backwards slowly, grip tightening on Snow’s waist to keep him from slipping and landing on his leg.

They end up on the ground, Baz barely managing to lay him flat without crushing his leg, before he rolls over to catch his breath. 

  
“Don’t scream next time,” he mutters between breaths, turning his head to check on Snow and finding blue eyes staring straight back. 

  
“Don’t toss me around next time then,” he replies, just as out of breath, and huffing like mad. His eyes slip closed and he waves his hand in the air dismissively. “Okay, now you can do your spell thing.”

  
Baz rolls his eyes, sitting up slowly to look at the wagon. He’s breathless the first time he tries, so the spell catches and holds for a second – the wagon vibrating before settling still again.

“Come on,” he whispers, taking a deep breath in and focusing whatever magic he has left into the spell. He closes his eyes, feeling the magic run through him, tensing his muscles. He can feel it there, but just barely humming through him, and he feels closer to passing out than casting anything.

  
He can hear Snow moving besides him, and before he can open his eyes, his hand wraps around his arm. 

  
“What are you doing?” He asks. Snow’s fingers dig in weakly, then he gives the slightest squeeze. 

  
It’s agonizingly hot for a second, like being set on fire, and then suddenly, it’s so _good_. He feels limitless, like all his magic has come back. Or more like he’s opened up on the inside and he’s full of magic that isn't his own. He whispers the spell and watches it work, with no effort at all. _Is this what it's like to be Simon Snow?_

He feels so full. Of magic; of _life_. A laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it, loud and incredulous, and then he can’t stop.

  
_**Simon** _

  
Baz is shaking so hard that Simon takes his hand away immediately, trying to pull back on his magic. It feels like water pouring from a tap, and he has to close his eyes and breathe it back into himself. He opens them again and turns to stare at Baz, who’s giggling now, eyes shining as he watches the cart grow to the size of a mini-van.

  
“Are you alright?” He asks, scared to set him off anymore.

  
He turns to meet Simon’s eyes and his laughter fades off, his face breaking open into a wide smile. His eyes look lit from the inside, glowing this delicate silver shade. Simon feels his heart pound hard against his chest at the sight, knowing he did that. Guilt creeps up on him, but there’s some sort of satisfaction in knowing that he helped with the spell.

  
“Simon Snow, I’m doing just fine.” He pauses, shaking his head with a frown. His lips curve into a smile despite it, and he seems to get more frustrated, even as he says, “Quite alright.”

His eyebrows curve down into a frown, but his mouth stays stubbornly fixed in a grin. 

Simon frowns. He looks unnatural, like he's fighting the impulse to smile but can't quite get it to stop.

  
He frowns deeper, and this time he massages his jaw with his fingers, a giggle slipping from his mouth. 

  
“Are you sure?” Simon asks, batting his hand away to see if he’s still smiling. He is, but it’s small. He’s clearly affronted by Simon smacking him so casually, but Simon can't bring himself to care. This is the most expression he’s ever seen, even if it is partly some weird mania from Simon’s magic, and he doesn’t want to look away just yet.

  
“Does your magic always make you feel like you’re endless?” He mumbles, like he’s giving in to the magic. A giggle slips past his lips, followed by a sigh.

  
“No idea what you’re talking about mate.”

  
He sprawls out on the sand while Simon watches him, blinking slowly. “Like you’re on drugs, Snow. Like you’re in the clouds. Or like you are the clouds. Like the whole solar system.” 

  
He doesn’t know what to do or what to say, so he just lies down too, careful not to touch him or get too close. 

  
He wants to try again, see how well it’d work if he could stream his magic through Baz like a wand or something. Mr. Salisbury says that wands haven't been used for anything besides decoration in years.

He gave Simon a knife instead, on the first mission he went on. He's never needed to use it, but he can feel the metal burning where it's strapped to his hip, each time he thinks too hard about it. 

He looks over at him, feeling guilty for zoning out, but Baz is humming quietly, both hands pressed to his chest. He’s looking at the sky, eyes still bright and unfocused. 

  
“I’m sorry,” Simon whispers. It slips before he can stop it, and before he can figure out why he feels it.

  
“For what?” Baz is looking at him now, but he still looks a million miles away. _In the clouds_ , he'd said. His eyes are the same shade of the rain clouds from a while ago, getting darker as the sun sets.

“I’ll tell you in a bit,” he murmurs. Baz looks satisfied by this, going back to humming and gazing at the sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all. i apologize for updating so infrequently. all the homework i have is super stressing n' i'm trying to adjust to juggling online courses and getting all my stuff ready for college. believe it or not, i'll be an english major next fall, n' hopefully get better at writing ! 
> 
> anyway, thank you to the people still sticking with me and this story. i never imagined it'd even get this far, as silly as it sounds, but your support means the world to me <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, the classic "my mind is telling me no, but my body says i'm starved for affection"
> 
> let's see how the boys navigate this
> 
> feat. more magic sharing, baz being a sap (unintentionally) and simon's (not) thoughts

_**Baz** _

There’s someone humming an old _Depeche Mode_ song. It sounds clear in Baz’s ears, even though his head feels hazy, and his chest feels like a popped balloon. He recognizes the melody as something his mother used to sing to him, but can’t quite remember the name. The sound of it cuts off as he opens his mouth to ask where it’s coming from, and his heart stops suddenly, slamming against his chest, when he realizes it was him. His head clears then, surroundings sharpening as he sits up fast to check if Snow’s still there. 

  
He is, frowning up at Baz from where he’s lying on the sand. He's staring at the sky, a rigid set to his jaw. Something like worry dances in his face, but Baz can't tell. It only takes him a second for all the memories to come back - sharing magic and an apology. Snow sits up slowly, scooting away slowly when he notices how close they are. 

  
“Do you feel better?” He asks, right as Baz stands up and asks, “What did we do?”

  
His brow furrows at Baz’s tone, and he rolls his shoulders back so he can sit up straight. His jaw sets, defense sliding over his posture like he’s preparing for an argument. Baz isn’t sure if that’s where this is leading, but he narrows his eyes minutely, tensing up. 

  
“We didn’t _do_ anything. You spelled the cart big, and I just…” He pauses like he’s not quite sure of what happened.

  
Baz’s grandparents were magical historians – one of the only modern-day families to have full magic in their bloodline. They had books upon books in their library, specific sections about magical compatibility and power levels and… 

  
“Shared your magic?” His throat is dry and the words come out a rasp.

  
“I guess?” He looks confused. And still concerned, like maybe his apology didn't quite cover everything. Baz paces, trying to clear his head and remember if he’s missing anything, if he said something important.

  
“Look mate, if you’re freaking out cause you think that I drugged you and stole something off you, that’s not it,” he says, frustration seeping into his tone despite the deep breaths he’s taking. “And it’s not like I can escape,” he adds drily, gesturing vaguely at his leg.

Baz shoots him a glare, brushing his hands along his slacks to wipe dust off. 

  
“Sharing magic is an old fairy tale,” he says, placing his hands on the side of the wagon to try and turn it over. “There’s some book about prophecy, and two people who were fated to work side by side to defeat the villain," he grunts, pausing to breathe for a second before he starts again.

Snow doesn’t say anything, but Baz can hear him huff as he watches the struggle, clearly displeased with not being able to help. He turns around to confirm it – and also to catch his breath – and finds Snow with his arm outstretched, fingers nearly touching Baz’s leg. 

  
He stills when they meet eyes, but doesn’t pull his hand back. “How does the story end?”

  
Baz’s mind comes to a brief standstill at the tone of his voice, the sudden proximity. He has to look away, reminded of the ecstasy of that feeling; magic pouring into him, and then from him, endlessly. It nearly makes him forget what they’re talking about.

  
“They drive each other mad sharing incompatible magic," he mutters, "He kills her, and then himself.”

  
Snow frowns, drawing back, just barely. “That’s a shitty ending.”

  
Baz mirrors his expression, stepping closer, just enough so Simon’s fingers brush his leg. “I didn’t write it.”

  
His mind is running in circles of _bad idea_ and _it can't be so bad_ , even though he’s just finished telling Snow that it could be a death sentence to try again. Rationally, it shouldn’t even be something to consider, not at all. But what’s the harm in help? The faster they get home, the better, and a bit of magic would help that, after all.

  
“What if the magic is compatible?” Snow asks, like he's thinking the same thing. It probably wouldn't matter much to him if Baz died, after all. He’s probably not having the same inner turmoil over it. Baz almost steps back, but Snow’s fingers close on the material of his slacks. Baz doesn't feel the need to move back, surprisingly, but it _is_ unbearably awkward. He wants to sneer at him and cringe away, but he doesn’t move. He’s curious mostly, of what he’s planning.

He doesn’t trust Snow not to be a thief, or not to lie (although he’s been mostly truthful, from what Baz can tell).

  
But he trusts him not to hurt Baz without a major reason. Magic is their common ground, and Baz knows this better than Snow does. He’s grown up with it, surrounded by it, using it for everything. And Snow’s a petty thief – a damn near perfect one – with no control over himself. He’s a loose cannon, and Baz hasn't incinerated yet, so maybe their magic _is_ compatible. Snow’s the power source and Baz is the extension, and anything that they try might get them home faster. He stays put, grinding his teeth to keep from cringing.

  
_**Simon**_

  
The sun is sinking and it’s getting dark, and they’re no closer to getting ready to sleep than they were earlier. Yet, here they are, wasting more time, and it’s his own fault. 

  
Simon’s tempted to call it off, forget experimenting with this because it feels like the least important thing right now. But he’s already holding Baz’s ankle and he’s too embarrassed to even say anything to him at this point, so he keeps his hands steady, pretending he’s got an idea of what he’s doing. 

  
_Christ_ , this is awkward.

  
“Would you rather pick a different body part?”

  
Simon jerks his head up, nodding so fast that Baz’s mouth quirks up, just the slightest bit. He expects his hand maybe, but Baz just kneels beside him, extending his arm like before. Simon takes a breath of relief, relaxing as he places his hand over Baz’s forearm. He averts his eyes when Simon turns to check if anything’s wrong, so he just squeezes to make sure it's fine. 

  
“I’m going to do a little bit, okay?” His voice comes out quieter than he anticipated. 

  
Baz finally looks at him then, eyes unreadable. He looks like he has a mask on, like there's _something_ there. 

  
“Just a bit,” he repeats, firmly, tensing under Simon’s touch. He pauses, closing his eyes halfway to focus better, before giving the slightest push. All the magic bubbling up under his skin with nowhere else to go rises up, pouring from his fingers into Baz’s arm. Simon's eyes fly open at the small gasp he makes, pulling back just a little when he notices the clench of Baz’s jaw. 

“Alright?” he asks, still watching his face to make sure that he’s not doing too much.

“It’s fine Snow,” he responds, relaxing only barely. “Give a bit more.”

Simon breathes in, catching the scent of rain and detergent, before letting out a slow breath and doing what he asked. His arm gains tension at that, as he stands up slowly with a “that’s enough,” and grabs the wagon’s edge, muscles straining as he turns it over. Simon marvels at how he's not even winded, just staring down at it calmly and flexing his fingers.

“Now what?” Simon asks, curious and eager to see what he’s going to make of it. Maybe if he has a solid night of sleep, they can figure things out much faster.

His excitement dims a bit when he realizes that they’ll probably has to sleep in shifts, but he trusts that if Baz hasn’t murdered him yet, he won’t at all. Then again, they barely know each other. The only real link they have is magic, and also that they can tolerate each other well enough. Maybe there’s more to him though, some hidden part. Like the piece of him whose face opens up at the thought of a memory; the one he’s trying his hardest to conceal, but still shows up when he’s drunk on magic. 

Simon shakes his head, trying not to think about it. 

“I can’t think of a single spell that could make holes in the top,” he says, not looking at Simon.

And well, that’s something Simon doesn’t have to think about. He'll take the distraction willingly. So, he sits up straighter and responds, “I could.” Just to avoid thinking too much about everything else. 

“How would you even get up?” Baz shoots back. His voice is pleasant and calm, contrary to his words. Simon almost enjoys it; a side effect of the magic perhaps. Which is why he pushes down his worry for a second, and asks:

“Pick me up?” 

He can’t gauge the expression on Baz’s face when he scoffs, but doesn't take it back.

_**Baz** _

Snow is a bloody imbecile. Forget master thief; cunning and completely elusive. He’s completely _idiotic_ if he thinks that it’s a good idea to do that. Plus, Baz is still unsteady from the feel of magic bursting through him. He feels strong, but also weak. The same tide that flows through his bloodstream ebbs out from his fingers, leaving him feeling hollow and full of fire.

“Technically, you already have,” he persists, until Baz shakes his head and looks over at him. 

“To get me off the wagon,” he adds, pulling another scoff to all from Baz's mouth. He’s right, but that was when they had no choice. Now, it’s ridiculous to even consider. 

_Why_?

It’s a very good question that he doesn’t have the answer to. Every fiber of his mind is screaming _irrational, bad idea_ at him, and yet, he finds himself stepping closer, body betraying his own thoughts. It’s not like he trusts Snow all of a sudden, but he trusts him not to hurt him. No one’s ever been reported dead after he steals from them – that the department knows of – and in all this time, he hasn’t tried. Not even when Baz was incapacitated, humming to himself. Unaware and defenseless.

They’ve already played cat and canary, predator and prey, and it’s something to recognize that he’s still fine, unharmed. It’s something to trust, if he has to pick something. Even if he’s certain that Snow’s only keeping him safe so they can get out of here faster. 

But it’s a bad idea because he knows that nothing good will come of proximity, that he’ll remember the warmth on him as he goes to sleep and want it more. It's not that he wants _him_ , it's just the attraction. And there’s absolutely nothing good that could come from that, no way that it does anything but lower his defenses.

He takes another step towards him anyway, ignoring his mind’s insistence that he keeps space between them. 

Snow’s eyes widen like he can’t quite believe he’s agreeing, then narrow as he flashes a smile. It’s so different from the ones that he’s thrown before, when he’s backed into a corner and defensive; wide and unflinching. This one’s just as big, but hesitant. A bright glimpse of what he looks like when he’s content.

“Get up,” he says flatly, as he reaches a hand out for Snow to grab, hoping his tone wipes the grin off his face. 

Hope does not care much for Baz’s concerns. The smile stays stuck on Snow’s face as he reaches up a hand, pivoting carefully to keep his other leg from touching the ground. Hands clasped, Baz lifts him up surprisingly easy, magic still coursing through him. He links their arms so he can let go of Snow’s hand and keep him steady, not wanting to repeat earlier when he’d almost face planted trying to get out of the wagon.   
  
His skin heats at the contact, and he sends a silent prayer to every deity who may take pity on him, that he’s not blushing right now. He makes to take a step forward, but stops when he hears a muffled sound from next to him. He feels Snow’s arm tense around his as he turns, watching the way his other leg nearly touches the ground.

“I think if I hopped over there my other leg would, uh, hurt,” he says, voice strained. “Maybe it’d be best if you just numbed it again?”

Baz stares at him, weighing the pros and cons of sharing magic again, thinking of another solution. 

On the pros side, he’d get to feel less tense, his guard lowered for just a second while he can’t keep it up. (His guard lowering is just as much con as it is pro.) Though, he’s not worried much about that anymore, as long as Snow controls himself, he can stay steady enough. Also, it’d relieve him of the pain for another short while, until they finally get to rest. 

Baz isn’t cruel; Snow really _doesn't_ deserve to be in pain. He’s already proven that he isn’t acting out of mindless cruelty. It’s in the way he lost himself to the rain earlier, in the way he sometimes breathes so loud, in a rhythmic pattern that’s too practiced to be casual. He's a _boy_ , as real as the rest, not a monster.

His mind disputes every valid point he’s just made. For one, his guard can be lowered faster if he gets a decent few hours of sleep – he’s reconsidering the sleeping in shifts idea since Snow hasn’t really posed a threat, but he’ll have to check him for weapons later. Plus, he could just numb it later right before Snow goes to sleep, that way he can sleep through the night. 

And perhaps the most incessant, worst idea that he’s ever had, is to just carry him. Surely, it’d be easier. Less time consuming, and besides, nothing can come of it, and he knows why. It’s the only thing he can be sure of.

Snow clears his throat besides him, still waiting for an answer, and this time, Baz knows he's blushing. Like a school girl, instead of a twenty-year old man. 

“I’ll carry you,” he says quietly, not meeting Snow’s eyes for fear that he’ll see disgust, or even worse, _relief_. 

“Okay, uh,” he starts, adjusting himself to wrap his free arm around Baz’s neck before he can take it back. “Yeah I suppose that’d be quicker.” 

Baz doesn’t miss how he’s started to breathe in pattern again.

_**Simon** _

One, then two. A breath; in and out. 

It’s not that he’s scared, or even worried. It’s the way the quiet hum of Baz’s voice settled the guilt he felt for not being able to walk on his own. That’s what sets him off, the gesture so unfamiliar to him that he finds himself wanting to sink into it. He forces his eyes upward as they shift, his arm coming up to wrap around his neck next to the other one. Baz slides his arms around Simon’s waist, fingers trailing lightly, like he’s trying not to touch him. 

He can’t not notice how his palms linger for a second, pressing down more firmly than his fingers before moving down to tuck at his hip. 

Simon’s thoughts unravel, unbearably, until he can’t think about anything but the brush of skin against him through his clothes.

“Alright?” Baz asks, still not looking at him.

Simon hums in reply, not quite trusting his voice. He nods when Baz glances at him, briefly, before he bends to pick him up gently.

_Oh Merlin._

It’s harmless contact. It’s trying to get things done faster, trying to get home faster and finish this. His mind is helpful in reminding him that there is no this to speak of, and he nearly groans at the thought.

“Okay, now you can do your spell thing,” Baz mocks, repeating Simon’s words from earlier. A laugh falls from his mouth before he can stop it, and he catches Baz’s gaze. His eyes are still a bit shimmery from earlier, Simon’s magic working its way through him. This close, he can see how they’re this deep grey color. Deep water like Simon’s only ever dreamed of, when he dreams of drowning. 

The color of the sky right before a storm.

_**Baz** _

Snow is staring rather aggressively. Baz isn’t sure he’s ever experienced being stared at like this, but of course Snow manages to introduce him to it.

He nearly drops him, nearly yells at him. 

Instead he clears his throat, and Snow looks away.

“Right okay,” he mumbles, and Baz’s fingers twitch on his hip. “I dunno a spell for making holes, but you want like, a mosquito net, right?”

His traitorous mouth quirks up, and Baz is glad that Simon’s busy observing the cart to see. 

“I could make it strong enough to hold my weight too, that way we don’t have to change it back when we start travelling again. And maybe we can figure some way for it to push itself? Oh, food first though, I know a few spells for food. We just need fire or something.” A pause, another breath. “Oh right, wagon first.”

He stiffens in Baz’s hold, fingers tightening where they’re linked behind his head. He can almost feel the magic scrabbling up in Snow, pushing at the seams of him before it flows over. Baz feels the residue soaking into his skin where they’re touching, feels it saturating the air around them, as Snow goes limp again. 

It’s not exactly what Baz had in mind – the covering is made of stringier ropes that’ll probably let a draft in, although it’ll block out any bugs that try to get in. It’s fine as is, there’s bigger things to worry about, (like food and sleep), and Snow’s practically falling out of his arms, so it’s best to maybe set aside his concerns. 

“Good?” he murmurs, blinking up at Baz through bright eyes. They’re swimming, shining, and Baz allows himself a second to indulge himself. His eyes are blue, plain as ever, and Baz has always preferred darker eyes anyway, has always liked pale skin and dark eyes and darker hair. Leave it to Snow to dismantle his previous preferences, to knock down his boundaries and have him staring like a fool. 

_Unattainable_ , his mind whispers, _don’t be ridiculous._

But he has no hope to begin with, and it’s not like he’s hoping for anything in the first place. Nothing’s changed – this is his job and Snow is still the same person he’s against. He doesn’t want anything from him.

He wishes his rationality extended just a bit further, enough to quell his attraction. Snow blinks, absentmindedly at the wagon, fingers tapping out a quiet rhythm on Baz’s neck.

No, he couldn’t go back now, not even if he tried his hardest. (He's not trying at all.) Best thing is to ignore it and carry on.

“Fine, Snow. Let’s sort out the food.”

Using the last dregs of Snow’s magic, he lets him down slowly, turning to put the wagon on its side. It’s somewhat lighter with the netting on the bottom, thankfully, so he’ll have no trouble tilting it over later. He’s hoping it won’t get too cold, as a chill settles over his skin. The sun sinks and the sky gets dark, stars shining brightly over them.

“Holy _shit_ , look at the stars,” Snow remarks, and Baz tilts his head down to look at him. He’s staring up at the sky, hands digging absently through the sand. 

Baz hums in response, eyes still on Snow. He’s too busy looking at the sky to notice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is a longer chapter, as apology for not updating sooner. i AM currently working on a separate fic (it's basically carry on, from baz's point of view and it is ANGSTY) so i hope to have that up soon for y'all
> 
> the next chapter of this is already mostly written, so i could update sooner for y'all :) once again, all feedback, comments, and kudos are appreciated, and of course, thank y'all for the immense amount of love and support. it means the world to me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simon reveals his motives accidentally and baz is struggling morally. reaching common ground is hard when the pair is defensive and equally stubborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say two (2) tropes ? in one chapter ? homoerotic knife under the chin action plus sharing a ,, sleeping space (there is no bed) PLUS vulnerability to further the plot ??

_**Simon** _

  
Baz’s got a fire going pretty close to the wagon, so it’s warm enough to chase away the sharp cold on the breeze. He was right that it might get cold. Simon tries not to feel too bitter at the thought, wrapping his arms around his middle and rubbing at his damp shirt to try and dry it faster. 

“What do you fancy, Snow?”

Baz turns away from the fire, frowning slightly despite his easy tone. Simon knows it’s got to be something that happened, maybe the same thing that he’s been questioning, but it’s better not to ask, not to know at all. He’s been trying to push back the memory of his softened tone out of his ear for a while now, much too long for it to be nothing.

“I don’t quite care,” he responds, mostly to see the shock on Baz’s face.

“Considering you’ve been whining about food the whole day; I figure it must be important to you. Are you picky about sandwiches?”

Simon frowns. “I thought the fire was to actually cook something.”

A smile nearly graces Baz’s face. “Watch.”

Simon does. His pale hand goes up over the fire, fingers swirling in the flames.

“Doesn’t that burn?” Simon asks, getting hushed immediately for breaking the silence. He rolls his eyes but keeps quiet, watching as his hands dig into the tips of the fire and pull at the top. He’s got a sandwich all of a sudden, and he’s handing it over as Simon tries to conceal his awe. 

“Roast beef,” he says, flinching back when their fingers brush. “On wheat bread, by the way.” He smiles when Simon wrinkles his nose (wheat bread, ugh) on the first bite, and then sticks his hands right back in the fire to make his own. The night is too silent, even with all the bugs humming and fluttering about, and the fire crackling against the wind.   
Baz must think so too, because he tenses under Simon’s gaze, hands stilling in the flames.

“So, questions?” Simon asks. There's things that he needs to know - they both do - but right now he really wants to know how Baz does that. He thinks of how much easier it'd be than trading off the things he takes, to give the neighborhood food straight from magic. He wonders if Mr. Salisbury would approve of it.

“From you or from me?” He responds after a second, dark eyebrows creasing as he swirls his fingers in the fire.

“Both. I’ll ask one first, and then you. Yeah?”

He looks up, meeting Simon’s eyes. “What like kids, Snow? Truth or dare much?”

“Truth or truth. I guess. So yes? Or are you just going to keep interrogating me?”

“That is my job, typically,” he says, but waves a hand at Simon anyway. “Yes, that’s fine. Ask.”

He’s not anticipating the question, clearly, because he huffs out a surprised laugh when Simon asks about the food. 

“Of all the things you could have asked,” he mutters, pulling his own sandwich out of the flame. “My mother taught me,” he finishes, between bites of his sandwich. He doesn’t elaborate, though.

"Is there a certain spell?" Simon presses, as Baz bites into his food. He frowns again at Simon, who sits patiently. 

"No. Not really, just focus on what you want to eat and channel that into the energy."

"Not big foods," he says after a second, like he just remembered. "And it should work for you since your type of magic doesn't seem to be specific." 

"Can I try?" Simon asks. He shakes his head in response.

"Tomorrow, maybe. There's other things we need to work out."

Pulling a tiny orb from his pocket, Baz taps his finger against it so it expands into the pack of water he’d spelled earlier. Simon lets him drink before he sticks his hand out, meeting his eyes and ignoring the amused look. It’s unnerving to notice the tiny flickers of expression now, to know that he’s only seeing it because Baz must be _allowing_ it. 

He’s oblivious to Simon’s thoughts, handing over the pack calmly before settling back across from the fire. 

_**Baz** _

Snow’s a detective’s dream, with the way his face tells exactly what he’s thinking. 

It's equally helpful and unpleasant to read his features. Helpful, because it could come in useful if Baz needs it. Unpleasant because he looks unbearably nervous right now, even despite how relaxed he is. Or worried. Baz watches the whole thing – his bottom lip between his teeth for a flash, eyes flicking around before settling on the floor. The way he puts his hand on the back of his neck for a second before his fingers push up into his hair.

He shouldn’t ask, especially not if he wants to keep using it to his advantage, but suddenly, it’s the only question in his mind.

“Your mentor didn’t think to train your facial reactions?”

Snow frowns at him, a question in his eyes.

“You’re expressive,” Baz clarifies. “You’d think that as a criminal, he would have taught you not to be so telling with your facial reactions.” 

Even after he’s said it, surprise flashes across Snow’s face, before he turns his face away. A blank mask has replaced his face when he turns back, but he hasn’t sorted out all his features. His mouth is set in a hard line, too tense to pull off expressionless. 

“Was that your question?” He asks, dropping the flat look so he can frown again. 

“It was _a_ question. You didn’t answer.”

“No. Why would he?” It’s a genuine question, like he doesn’t understand how important it is to be blank if he’s interrogated. But, then again… 

“You've never been caught," Baz finishes. Simon hums his assent.

“I’ve never needed it,” he says, after a moment of silence.

Baz hums and pretends that the truth doesn’t sink hard like disappointment in his gut. 

“Aren’t you worried that I’ll ask something that I shouldn’t know?” Snow asks, breaking the silence. Probably because he thinks that he could do anything with the information Baz would give him. Still, the suspicion in his tone irritates him, and he snaps against his better judgement.

“Figured that should be a bigger concern of _yours_. I’m not the criminal here.”

Snow exhales roughly in response, eyes flaring with anger when he meets Baz's eyes above the flame. “It’s not _bad_. I’m not–” He pauses, takes a breath that does absolutely nothing to settle him down.

“I’m not going to bother explaining to a _pig_ how we work.” 

Baz abruptly chokes on a piece of bread. 

“What on Earth did you just call me?” He splutters between coughs, choking further when he sees Snow stifling a laugh at his state.

“Pig. Cop. _Police_ ,” he says, leaning in closer, “Oh god are you one of those people who refers to yourself as 'The Hot Fuzz'?”

Baz can barely breathe at this point. 

“I am a _detective_ , firstly. Secondly, what are you going on about? You sound like a lunatic.”

Snow looks at him dubiously, shifting his gaze pointedly to Baz’s still heaving chest. 

“Right, I’m not the one who choked on his food over being mis- What’s the word? Gendered? Titled?” 

_**Simon** _

Baz looks downright murderous. Out of the expressions that Simon's been able to read on his face, angry surprise is the most obvious. Maybe he's genuinely offended by the label. He _did_ say that he was a detective, maybe that's different than the police? 

And okay, maybe shooting out _misgendered_ before he could remember the proper term wasn’t the best way to solidify his non-lunacy, but it’s something that’s happened enough times with Penny that he just got used to it. Now that he thinks about it, he probably recognizes surprise the best because of how often it shows on her face. 

Surprise, anger, pity. He knows those the best.

“They said you were _intelligent_ ,” Baz says, disbelief palpable in his tone. “Most elusive criminal in the entire city, but you nearly jumped from a window earlier, and you just used the term misgendered in a conversation that has absolutely nothing to do with gender.”

And alright, it’s not even a joke anymore, no matter how funny it was to see him floundering. He’s actually affronted, or maybe he’s starting to genuinely believe that Simon’s stupid. He’s used the word criminal twice though, and each time he does, his tone shifts, like he’s forcing the word between his teeth. Anger sparks and catches in Simon’s chest. 

“It was a mistake, okay? And I had a spell; I wouldn’t have even hit the ground had you not come along and mucked it up.”

“Had you not been _stealing_ , there would have been no reason for me to even be in that house, Snow,” he says, chin raising defiantly. 

“Had the city done something about the poverty issue, maybe I wouldn’t _have_ to do that,” he hisses back. Simon would have hit him by now, but he can’t quite move, and it would probably just cause more problems between them. He doesn’t fully register what he’s just said until he sees that same flash of surprise on Baz’s face when he stops talking. 

“Is that your motive?” He scoffs, standing up. Simon’s left staring up at him from the floor, seething. “You’re some kind of Robin Hood, redistributing the wealth?”

Simon’s surprised when he walks over to him, muttering something under his breath as he stands right in front of him. He lets out a yelp as Baz lifts a finger and Simon starts floating. His leg stays immobile (which must be something else that he spelled, cause the rest of his limbs are flailing without the feel of gravity.) 

Baz tilts his hand and Simon moves through the air slowly, until he’s sat down right next to the wagon. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, still angry but mostly curious. A hint of fear bolts through him when he realizes that Baz can very well just kill him right here, but he's already gone over this in his head. He wouldn't kill him, he knows that much. He's _certain._

“You’re a child,” Baz says quietly, walking over to the wagon and tilting it over easily so it covers him. Simon’s shocked into silence as darkness settles over him, the only light coming through the net at the top of the wagon.

“Only a child would dream that they could make a difference like that,” comes Baz’s voice from outside. “And children go to sleep early.”

_**Baz** _

Snow starts to sputter, tugging at the net and smacking the sides of the wagon, before he falls silent again. Which is for the best, because Baz needs to sort through what he’s just heard. He takes stock of his emotions as he hears Snow flop back on the sand, a groan filtering through the mesh on the top of the cart. 

Surprise douses every conflicting emotion in his chest. For every new question he has, an old one is answered. He has a motive now, at least, even if it’s an awful one. It’s not like it’s _his_ job to help everyone. Baz wonders if he’s acting out of some guilt or if this is where his mentor fits in. An accomplice, maybe. Or an influential parent? 

He takes another drink from the water pack since Snow left it out, then moves back to the cart to slip it under for Snow, too quick for him to respond to the small opening.   
He mutters something impolite, but Baz ignores him, too caught up in his thoughts. 

The city. As far as Baz knows, Watford _has_ been doing something about the poverty in the South end. His father made it a habit to donate to the community offices every two months since his mother passed, and it had seemed to be working to do something. Poverty is at a low right now, if he remembers correctly. It's been reported on every triumphant news station for months, the unemployment rates shrinking miraculously.

Baz wonders whether Snow’s even talking about the south, or if he lives in a different community altogether. But surely, he’s Watford based, if each report is tied to the city. He adds it to the questions he’ll ask tomorrow, opting to wait until Snow is asleep before he even considers getting in next to him. He’s not looking forward to sharing the space – especially because he forgot to check him for weapons. _Shit_. 

“Snow.”

He hears a noise from inside the wagon, but no answer, so he repeats himself.

“I’m going to go in if you don’t answer. I need to make sure you haven’t got weapons on you.” 

Silence. 

“ _Fuck it_.” He walks over to the wagon, muttering under his breath about how petulant he’s being. 

_**Simon** _

He’s got a few seconds to decide whether this is the best thing to do. He’s not _actually_ going to hurt him. It’s just to scare him a bit so he knows that Simon’s not a child, that he's to be taken seriously. Then again, he doesn’t have the proper advantage with his leg being messed up, so maybe he’ll just end up being hurt in the end. 

He wracks his brain to remember if the adverts over his capture say _dead or alive_. He crosses his fingers that there's nothing about death, drawing his knife against his side, concealing it half-under his leg.

“Oh, you are _not_ asleep. I heard you grumbling right now,” Baz whispers, as he tilts the wagon up on its side. Moonlight pours over him, and Simon shifts to tuck the blade under his body to conceal it so it won’t catch the light.

“I’m not,” he mutters back, and he hears Baz huff quietly. 

“Well sit up then, I’ve got to check you.”

Simon turns his head to glare at him. “Do _you_ have weapons on you?” 

“Sit _up_ ,” he says, shifting closer. “And no, I’m a _detective_ Snow, I usually don’t have to leave my desk for my work.”

Simon does, but only because Baz has been honest about everything else he’s said. He says everything with a sort of conviction, like he’s absolutely certain of it. 

He could also just be a tremendous liar. 

Fingering the blade under his leg, Simon stays still as he starts at his shoulders, trailing firm hands down the sides of his arm. His can't help but relax under the touch, but he’s still stung over the child comment from earlier. It's enough encouragement to decide what he's going to do.

Just as Baz asks him to lift his arms, Simon swings over, piling over him and ignoring the burning ache in his leg. He has to clamp his mouth closed to keep from whimpering in pain, but it works. Like this, he can keep one knee of the side of Baz’s hip and the other one barely resting on the ground. He’s got the knife’s edge pressed just under his chin, tilting his head up so he’ll look Simon in the eyes. 

“Listen to me,” he says, quietly. This close, he could whisper and Baz could probably hear it. His hands stay down at his sides, but they clench into fists as he cusses and meets Simon’s eyes. 

“Are you going to kill me, _Salisbury_? When every poster with your name on it says dead or alive, and you’re still breathing?” His eyes are shining, swimming brightly.

“Shut up,” Simon huffs, out of breath from the pain. He blinks away the dark spots in his vision quickly, but his hand still shakes where it’s wrapped around the hilt. “No, I’m not going to kill you. But listen.”

“Not like I have any other choice," he mutters, tilting his head up in emphasis so the knife slides along his throat. Simon tries not to stare at it. "Go on.”

Simon nods, fingers slipping a bit. He must be putting too much weight on the knife with the way Baz’s eyes widen, but he can barely control it anymore. The pain is flaring up, burning along his leg, and he’s exhausted from the day. Still, he has to say it now.

“First of all, we’re working on this together. We’ve agreed and your bloody opinion doesn’t fucking matter,” he says, slurring as the words get shoved between his gritted teeth. Baz picks up on it, tilting his head so the knife slides away from his throat, sinking in the sand next to his head.

“Fuck,” Simon says, body getting heavier. His chest is heaving, pushing Baz further into the sand. 

“Look, just _look_. You’re cruel and an absolute git, and I don’t like you, even if you sometimes prove that you’re not as shitty as I think you are. But we need to get home, and I don’t care if you don’t like me, you haven’t killed me yet, so clearly, your moral compass is aligned with some no-murder rule.”

“What the fuck are you even saying, Snow,” he hisses, rolling over so Simon’s on his back now. He doesn’t move, lets his eyes slip closed because he can’t help it. A whimper passes through his lips as the pain intensifies.

“I just- I’m not a child. I’m eighteen, and I know exactly what I’m doing, and fuck _Robin Hood_ , that’s more like my mentor. I’m just doing what he tells me because I know he's _right_. Alright?”

His words are dropping off, getting quieter now. It's too much, he wasn't ready for anything like that. His own voice is fading off. Baz must be spelling him quietly, then, because the pain is slowly ebbing away. 

_**Baz** _

“See,” he whispers now, eyes blinking open for the briefest moment before they shut again. His pupils are enormous, a side effect of the pain and Baz’s magic washing it away.

“That’s how I know you’re not that bad,” he continues, “You’re fixing the hurt. You make it easier.”

Snow’s breathing slows then, finally passing out, or falling asleep. Baz can’t quite tell.

His mind is racing erratically, rebounding off of everything he’s said. 

He tries to make sense of everything, lingering on what he said about his mentor telling him what to do. He’s still young, eighteen doesn’t automatically mean he’s responsible. If he’s been being threatened to steal, could that make a case in court? Could he be acquitted on that?

He fumbles for his mobile for a second to call Wellbelove before he remembers that it’s dead. Surely, there’s no charging spells, but…

He looks over at Snow, still breathing slowly. _He_ could probably charge it with a look. He’ll ask tomorrow. The list of things he’s been leaving for tomorrow is starting to get irritatingly long. This day in itself has been entirely too long, and yet, he's learned more than he thought he would, even if it's not enough. He'd better get a raise after they get home.

“I’ve got to get actual answers from you, Snow. Stop dodging.” 

He mumbles something in his sleep, eyebrows creasing before they smooth again. He shifts like he’s trying to curl in on himself, but he keeps flinching every time he moves his leg. Sighing, Baz spells ‘ _Lullaby and goodnight_ ,’ so a thin blanket comes up over him. Snow stills a bit, hands clenching in the fabric, but he’s still mumbling. 

Baz sighs, feeling the cold seep into his bones as exhaustion crawls over him. He grabs the water pack from where it was abandoned by Snow earlier and sets it outside, just in case it rains again. It’ll expand with the water it collects, if they get lucky enough to get more rain. 

Pulling the edge of the wagon back down over him, he breathes slow to get used to the dark that surrounds them. He can still see Snow’s hair, catching moonlight through the gaps in the netting. His skin looks silver in this light.

Baz faces away from him, shivering. He debates spelling himself another blanket – he’d rather do that than get anywhere closer to Snow. But his magic is spent to hell from all they’ve done today, and he can feel heat radiating off Snow like a furnace.

 _Christ_ , his knife is still stuck in between their heads in the sand. Baz grabs it and tosses it to the side, shifting closer reluctantly. He’ll be fine as long as they’re not touching, he supposes. Four hours of sleep and then he’ll wake up to make sure Snow doesn’t try anything to escape. Not that he could, considering he passed out just from pinning Baz to the ground for a minute.

The memory makes him shiver, though not from the cold. Thinking of the length of his body against Baz's own makes him turn away again, stubbornly facing the edge of the wagon. More than that though, is what he'd said. Baz doesn't think he meant to, that it slipped because he was dizzy with pain, but the words still linger in his head. It makes the thought of their contact much more unbearable, to realize that Snow trusts that he's not all that bad.

It makes the difference because it feels less like aggression now. Baz groans as he catches sight of the blade, erasing the thought from his head.

So, maybe there's still aggression. But now he can _help_ him. He's starting to feel less like they're on opposite sides, like maybe now, he can work _with_ Snow. To get acquitted, or maybe to confess and get his mentor locked up. He won't have to do this anymore, and then maybe he can come out and actually live his life.

Baz just needs to figure out how to tell him that. _Soon_ , he decides, when he shifts onto his back to look at the stars. 

His mind is still spinning too incessantly for him to sleep. It takes a while, but finally, his thoughts stops on a dime, the phrase, ‘ _you make it easier_ ’ lulling him into sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey again y'all ! here's chapter ten, i hope you guys enjoy it <3 things are starting to get i n t e n s e now, let's see what happens
> 
> once again, comments, kudos, and all that jazz are appreciated, let me know how y'all are doing, how you feel, n' all that <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More feelings are shared, more things are learned. They have a future to get to but Simon's realizing that he doesn't want to get there quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what ??? a chapter update that comes in less than ten days ???? who IS she ????? 
> 
> in all honesty, i've developed quite the writing schedule in this past week (i wake up and write on and off for about eight hours a day) (my arms and hands are quite sore from it bc my writing posture is dreadful)
> 
> anyway, hello hi this is the latest chapter. this story is coming together, albeit very slowly. hang on in there, it's closing up sometime soon lovelies !

_**Simon** _

It takes a few minutes after he wakes up to realize he’s awake, and then another second to realize where he is. 

He’d been having a nightmare where he was home, staring up at the skylight in his room. Only, the skylight kept getting further and further away, and Simon was sinking into the dirt. The boy from the market was there, trying to tug him out, bright red wings spreading out behind him. He’d woken up with his face tangled in his arms, staring up at the dim morning sky. For a second, he’d thought he was still there at home, the tangle of netting looking an awful lot like the skylight, but he heard Baz clear his throat beside him and quickly reigned in his terror. 

He’s holding Simon’s knife between his fingers and embarrassment floods over him as he remembers going weak and passing out from pain while he was trying to talk to Baz. _So much for being taken seriously_ , he thinks, as he takes in the unimpressed vacancy on his face. Simon flinches as the knife falls next to his head with a dull thud.

“Nightmare?” Baz asks, far too gently for Simon’s comfort. His voice is cold, likely still annoyed about yesterday, but Simon’s thankful still for his quiet tone.

He looks like he hasn’t slept much either, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced in the soft light just before the sunrise. His hair looks an absolute fright, and in another life, Simon might have made fun of him for it. Now though, he takes comfort in his soft tone, in the grace that he’s offering. It feels a lot like forgiveness, even though Simon hasn’t said sorry yet. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says, because Baz is squinting and stifling yawns in his sleeve, and because he could have just taken off while Simon was sleeping.

“Sorry that it backfired on you or sorry for doing it, Snow?” He asks in a clipped voice. Simon winces.

“It didn’t _backfire_. I mean, you listened, and that was the point,” he murmurs, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “I’m not sorry for doing it; I’m sorry that I had to.”

Baz stares at him like he can’t quite figure him out.

“I’m sorry too,” he says after a while, waiting for Simon’s response. When he doesn’t speak, Baz continues. “For not listening. We are supposed to be working together, I know. And..” he trails off, jaw working back and forth.

“Truce?”

Simon blinks at him. “Truce?” He repeats, breaking the strange comfort of the moment when Baz rolls his eyes at him. 

“A magic one,” he says, “We’ll swear it with magic and then neither of us can hurt the other.”

“What happens if we do hurt each other?” 

“Depends on the hurt. It mirrors everything back onto the person inflicting it.”

Simon’s already reaching his hand out. “Alright, so what, we shake on it?”

Baz frowns at him, extending his arm slowly. “Yes. You’re not hesitant?”

“Why should I be?” 

He doesn’t respond, but he hitches up that awful eyebrow again. Simon guesses the expression he's going for is _disbelief_ , but the real version of it, when his eyes are wide and he's tensed up, is infinitely better. He grabs Simon’s hand and locks them together.

“You trust me?” He asks, tightening his grip. Simon squeezes back in response, too overwhelmed to answer verbally. Baz must see it in his face, because he nods. 

“ _Trust is as good as a man’s word. Let it be known, let it be heard._ ”

Hot magic sinks into Simon’s hand, enough to sting a little. Neither of them pulls back for a second, though. The burn spreads up into his arm, sending heat through his whole body. 

“How do we know if it worked?” 

Baz reaches up then and sinks a hand into his hair, tugging sharply. Simon hisses at the pain tingling on his scalp, glaring at Baz. He looks rather smug about it, though he’s rubbing his own scalp gingerly. 

“How do I know you’re not faking it?” He mutters, eyeing him suspiciously. Baz rolls his eyes again and offers his hand. 

“Try something,” he responds, bored like he already expected this. Simon bypasses his hand entirely and grabs Baz’s hair at his scalp, ignoring his shout of protest and pulling hard.

As Baz’s head goes back with the momentum, Simon’s whips in the opposite direction, an invisible force sending pinpricks across his skull.

“ _Wicked_ ,” he grins, ignoring Baz’s glare. “Alright, so. Let’s get started then.” 

_**Baz** _

Snow is grinning like a ridiculous dolt, infinitely pleased with this revelation. Somehow all the tension from last night has dissipated with his smile, like the world’s alright now with this new plan in place. Baz wonders if it’s his magic that has that effect or if it’s just his own hopeful thinking. 

He can’t stop thinking about what he said last night either. It's rather distracting, muddling his thoughts and making Simon's presence much harder to ignore.

  
“I’ll assume you want breakfast before we start the day?” He asks, after Simon’s stomach growls particularly loudly. He flushes with a sheepish smile, nodding and stretching out carefully. Baz rolls over desperately to keep from staring as a small strip of skin comes into view, right under his raised shirt.

“Could you make scones? Is that a thing?” He asks around a yawn. Baz grits his teeth and digs his fingers into the wagon's edge to keep from turning around. 

“What kind?”

Simon pauses, making Baz turn around at his silence. Regret comes instantly at the sight of Snow's pursed lips, the way his eyes have shifted downwards. Baz can see freckles dotted even on his eyelids, and feels sick at his own observation, disappointed that he can't seem to get his own thoughts under control.

“Sour cherry,” he says, tacking on a “please” at the end like an afterthought. Baz rolls his eyes and shifts over to the fire, still smoking from last night. 

He probably should have put it out, but it’s conveniently still warm enough to catch easily. His magic is fully replenished after last night – even if he only got a few hours of sleep – and it’s easy to cast on the sand.

He nearly dips his hands in the flame before he remembers that Snow had wanted to try it last night. 

“It’s about seven,” he says quietly, lifting a hand to point at the barely rising sun. “You see where the sun’s at?” 

Baz hums, nodding his assent before gesturing at the fire.

“Come over here,” he says, huffing a small laugh when Simon looks pointedly at his leg. 

“Pick me up,” he fusses, shifting up so he can stick his arms straight in the air. It's not what he expected, especially not after he pulled a knife just to insist that he's not a child. . It should make Baz want to stay far, _far_ away from him, but he finds himself even more curious.

“Thought you weren’t a child,” Baz grumbles, walking over to him anyway, because he’s weak and Snow’s pouting at him on the floor, and the rising light is catching spectacularly in his blue eyes. 

“Eighteen technically isn’t,” he grins, and Baz casts the numbing spell quietly so it won’t hurt to jostle him when he picks him up. Slowly, he crouches down and wraps his arms around Snow’s torso carefully, trying and failing not to notice the way his freckled hands slide up on his shoulders. 

“Wait!” He yells, right in Baz’s ear. His hand slips from where it’s tucked under Snow’s leg and he nearly drops him, barely managing to hold on by twisting to wrap both arms around his torso. They end up back to chest and Snow goes limp, puffing out apologies between laughs.

“What?” Baz hisses, so close that his lips brush the back of Snow’s neck.

"Déjà vu," he says weakly, referring to when Baz had him pinned against the window, a dry attempt at humor.

He huffs out a laugh at that, surprised, and well. He can’t pretend he doesn’t feel Snow go completely stiff in his arms, nor can he ignore the tiny shiver that rolls through him. It’s already too hot outside even though the sun’s not out, so he’s not inclined to believe that it's because he's cold. 

“I was gonna say that you could have just started the fire closer to me,” he mumbles when Baz stays quiet, swallowing so roughly that Baz sees his head tilt back with it. 

He wonders why he hadn’t thought of that first, as he places Snow back down by the wagon. 

Snow’s practically vibrating with excitement, some newfound ease settled over him now that they have a truce. The second Baz casts the fire by him, he’s shoving his hands in, wincing back at the heat. 

“Okay, that hurts,” he says, confused. Baz turns to him with a sigh. 

“Maybe it won’t work with you because you’re not specialized?”

“Jack of all trades,” he mutters bitterly, like it’s something he’s heard before many times. “So, it can’t be done?” He continues, eyes regaining a tiny flicker of hope despite the resignation in his tone. Baz sticks his own hands in the flame, feeling none of the heat. 

“Try again,” he nods, and Snow does, immediately pulling back again. 

“Nope,” he sighs, slumping over miserably. 

“Why were you so eager?” Baz asks, before he can stop himself. He’s sure Snow won’t bother to answer, but he surprises him, after some hesitation.

“There’s a lot of people that go hungry in my neighborhood. It’d help a lot if I were able to just do this instead of having to… take, you know?”

He’s still speaking slowly, like he’s not sure how much to reveal. Baz nods in understanding, feeling his heart squeeze painfully in his chest at the truth. He _is_ a Robin Hood type, all morality and heroism. Feeding the hungry, no matter what. His chest burns with the need to know more, to know all of it, just to be sure that he can save him. That he _wants_ to be saved.

“Truth or truth, Snow?”

Simon’s eyes shoot up to his, worry crossing over his gaze. “What do you want to know?”

“Give me your hands first,” he says instead, holding his question off. He needs Snow to know that he’s trying to help him, so when he figures everything out, he can actually do something.

Simon reaches over reluctantly, pausing just before Baz can grab him. 

He reaches forward, tugging on his fingers gently and Snow bites down on his lower lip before shoving them at Baz, locking their fingers together. 

“What,” he says, more of a statement than a question, defense up, just in case. 

Baz knows the feeling. 

He does his best to cover Snow’s hands in his own, casting a small protection spell just in case. His eyes go wide as he catches on and he nods, letting Baz guide them into the flame. 

_**Simon** _

Penny’s obsessed with this movie from the 90’s. She’s seen it at least twelve times, and forced Simon to watch it on her mobile at least five when they're together. He doesn’t really see the novelty, but he enjoys the extra time they get to spend together, especially because it’s the only time she’s not asking too many questions about him. 

He’s thinking about that now because of that one scene where Molly’s doing pottery and she imagines her dead boyfriend holding her hands over the clay. And Baz isn’t his dead boyfriend, and this isn’t pottery, but it feels about the same as that scene looked. 

Simon’s just glad they’re sitting across from each other, so there’s a bit of distance. But then again, now he’s got to thinking about _why_ he wishes there wasn’t any distance. It’s not something that he really wants to sort out (maybe later when they’re not holding hands). He shakes his head, then does it again when Baz looks at him with a question in his eyes.

“Alright, Snow?”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak – he’s suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to ask if this counts as holding hands, and then overwhelmed at the idea of how much he likes it. So he’s silent, as Baz explains to him that he needs to visualize the food he wants. At least that’ll clear his head.

His stomach growls painfully, encouraging him to picture the scones that Penny always orders him at the café before he gets there. Sour cherry, with lots of butter. He’s so triumphant when he feels it forming in his hands that he doesn’t even realize Baz has let go of him. There’s a tiny smile in place of his usual flat expression and Simon feels another thrill run through him at the sight. 

He grins. “Guess I don’t need you anymore.” Baz huffs haughtily and shakes his head, a grin coming loose on his face. For a second, all Simon can do is watch as his expression is replaced by a broken-up smile, sharp like he’s used to being cruel. He forces his eyes away when Baz meets his gaze. 

“Alright,” Simon mumbles, thinking of his lit up eyes yesterday, and how close this expression is to that. He takes a bite out of his scone. “You can do the rest, my leg hurts.” 

Baz glances at his knee and casts another numbing spell, muttering it under his breath as he sticks his hands in the fire. 

Simon can’t stop watching him. 

-  
  
It’s that easy for the rest of the long day. Sometime after breakfast, Baz suggests that they regroup and have a day to breathe. That wasn't entirely expected, but Simon supposes they'll have better luck if he heals faster, so they can just magic back home. No use hiking if they have nowhere to go.

They share truths, some reluctantly and others not. Small trivial things, like job questions (for Baz) and magic questions (for Simon). He learns that Baz is afraid of the dark, that he’s twenty and this is his first job. He finds out that his mother passed away, but he doesn’t give details, and he shuts down completely when Simon prods a bit further.

Simon, in turn, tells him that he’s never had a mum, but that he had someone like that, and that she passed too. He tells him that he’s had nightmares of the faces he sees, that his memory is awful but he still remembers the face of everyone whose ever caught him before. That he didn’t even know it was his magic that made it so easy to get away. 

He can’t make his heart stop racing when Baz tells him that barely anyone remembers his face by the time they file a report, and that it's probably his magic shielding him, even if he doesn't notice.

The sun is already going down by the time he tosses his mobile at him, quiet confidence surging from him.

“Do you think you could charge this?” He asks, “I don’t know a charging spell and your magic is helpfully volatile at times.”

Simon’s not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult, and Baz’s face betrays nothing. He picks it up, frowning. 

“Why do you need it?” He asks, rolling his eyes at the shock in Baz’s expression. “So that I can actually like, have a reason to ‘ _go off_ ’ you know.”

“I need to call a friend of mine about what we’re going to do after this.”

Reality settles cold in Simon’s stomach. This is _completely_ temporary. They’re still going to have to part ways after this – there’s no way he’s going to prison, so he's going to have to find _some_ way to get out. He feels disappointment creep in, the phone lighting up in his hands as he recalls everything he’s said today. His chest rattles with an aborted laugh as he grows bitter, emotions surging through him in a rush.

None of what he’s said was important, none of it could compromise him or Mr. Salisbury. But all of it was _real_. He supposes that's the part that hurts, even if he doesn't know _why_ it does. 

It’s the most truthful that he’s been with a person since he’s met Penny.

His eyes shift to Baz, walking around the wagon and messing with the fire and setting up the nearly empty water pack again. There's a blanket by the cart that Baz studies before hastily folding it and putting it to the side, glancing at Simon only once before he busies himself again. Simon woke up under the blanket this morning, and he’s sure that Baz spelled it for him, but he didn’t notice it until it was too late to ask. 

He won’t ask. It won’t mean anything even if he gets the answer he wants. 

That’s a whole _other_ thing that he doesn’t want to think about, but forces its way to the front of his mind anyway. He rolls over in the sand, not even bothering to get closer to the cart as he faces away from Baz and clutches the phone to his chest. He’d rather not think about the bitter reality of _after_ , so he forces himself to face the other thing. 

It’s not that he _likes_ him - it’s only really been a day since they’ve met - and he’s never liked anyone in his life. He’s found plenty of people attractive, of course, (Baz included) but it was nothing like this insistent feeling in his chest.

Not that he wants anything out of this, (except maybe to walk away freely when they get back home) it’s just this feeling like _want_. 

Wanting to know more about Baz, about why he’s scared of the dark, about his mother. He doesn’t like him, but he likes the tiny details that he’s seeing. His heart beats unsteadily as he thinks about that, uncomfortable with how much the truth weighs.

“Simon, are you asleep?”

That’s the _other_ thing. 

Sometime during a lazy conversation from earlier, Simon had asked why Baz insists on using his last name. He’d looked genuinely surprised, and asked if he preferred his first.   
It makes it increasingly difficult to ignore his realizations when hearing his name in Baz’s mouth makes him relax, feeling settled in a way he's never really known before. Even with Penny, he’d gotten used to looking over his shoulder, waiting for someone to recognize him.

He supposes it could be that he's more at ease because they’re alone in the desert, but he thinks that it may be more than that.

Idly, he wonders if Baz is only pretending to be vulnerable to lure Simon into trusting him, to confuse him about his sexuality, but the lingering memory of their truce is enough to brush away the thought, and Baz’s voice insistently pokes through Simon’s distraction. 

“Simon,” he repeats, closer now. He rolls over to keep Baz from getting closer and making his thoughts more insufferable. 

“Here.” 

Baz flashes a small smile as Simon hands him the phone, then lets a bigger one take its place when it vibrates to life in his hands.

“Oh, thank you,” he breathes, letting his eyes flick up to Simon’s before he goes back to messing with the screen.

Simon doesn’t have a mobile – they’re too suspicious according to Mr. Salisbury – so he’s not quite sure what Baz is doing that requires so much tapping, or why the “bad signal” is making it so difficult for him. He curses, pocketing it and staring down at his hands helplessly. 

“There’s a signal spell, but my magic is burnt out,” he says, slowly like he doesn’t really want to ask. Simon knows what he’s asking for before it’s fully said, and he holds his hands out. 

Baz takes them wordlessly, a silent thank you in his eyes as he casts. Simon crawls over to the cart carefully, thankful for the numbing spell that Baz casted a while ago. He closes his eyes when the phone starts buzzing incessantly, trying his hardest to block out the sound of Baz’s voice, falling asleep before he even realizes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and hi once again, i just wanna thank y'all for sticking with the story and reading this far ! very dedicated, i appreciate every single one of you 
> 
> of course, leave kudos, comments, or subscribe if you liked it, and check out my other stuff too if y'all would like <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz makes important phone calls and learns a bit more about Simon. It becomes increasingly harder to pretend that he's apathetic.

_**Baz** _

Simon’s asleep when he gets off of the phone, curled up in the sand by the wagon but not quite under it. His quiet sigh disrupts the silence and Baz responds with a sigh of his own. After calling in sick to his supervisor and calling his father to reassure that he’s alright, he still has to call Wellbelove and ask if she’ll take the case.

He can picture her shrill reply before he’s even finished dialing her number, that sharp sigh accompanied by whiny frustration. It’s a wonder that they’re even friends, with how often they annoy each other, but it took time and mutual admiration, and eventually they built a careful partnership from when he started detective work. Until she decided that living off of her trust fund money and selling jewelry at the market was better than being the only woman in her family to work.

She owes him though. Pretending to be her boyfriend to impress her parents was bad enough to earn him three favors, and he used the first to get the detective job in her precinct. Really, he would have been fine anywhere, but he feels more at ease knowing that she's competent, and that she'll only take on the important cases. It really was beneficial for both of them – she was the best defense attorney he’d ever met, and it was delightful to slip her information, knowing that she’d win over the jury every time. 

Also, she’s magic, and he needed more friends of the sort anyway, according to his father. The first favor also went both ways – not that Baz’s _father_ believed it - and now he’s got his family hoping that he marries her to keep the magic in the bloodline intact. He can’t be bothered to convince his father anymore than bringing her over for holidays, but that’s enough. He has yet to find a man he’d like to bring home, and he doubts that he would even if he did. 

The sudden drop of the sun leaves a layer of cold hanging in the air, and Baz’s gaze lands on Simon at the thought of holidays, wondering if he celebrates them. Somehow, he doubts it.

There are clouds building up above them, and he stares at them absently as he hears Wellbelove’s voice trickling through the speaker. 

“Agatha’s Accessories, how may I help you?”

“Wellbelove,” he grins, expression faltering slightly when she gasps. 

“Where the hell are you,” she exclaims, tone already pitching an octave higher. “Your location says _China_ , Baz. And don’t even say it’s a glitch, because I went to your apartment earlier and it’s empty.”

He rolls his eyes at that. “I never should have given you the key. Being nosey isn’t nice, you know. And why are you still answering your work phone, go home already.”

“It’s one p.m. I’m at work you menace,” she grumbles, “Why aren’t _you_?”

“Long story. Can I cash in a favor?” 

“Absolutely not. Explain what’s going on.”

“Would you accept if I told you that it involves Simon Salisbury?”

At the sound of his name, Simon mumbles quietly, and the clouds above them swirl, becoming darker and more ominous.

“Have you found him, Baz? In China?” Her tone has dropped down to a whisper, but it’s higher than ever, incredulous. He hums his assent and she groans when she finally catches on. 

“Would this favor involve taking his case? Because, _no_ Basil. You can’t seriously expect me to defend him. He’s going away with or without my help, Jesus Christ.”

“Not my name,” he says cheerily, cutting her off as she mutters angrily to herself. “What if I get you his confession? I have reason to believe that he’s being coerced, and if he testifies to it, he’ll gain sympathy points. And you know he’d get off anyway on those charges if he is. He's only eighteen, and he started this years ago.”

Silence greets him, followed by an angry, banging noise. 

“Do you know how they got his name? He’d _written_ it, Baz. In the dust on someone’s bookcase, over and over again. You want me to defend him? He, who put his own evidence in someone’s home.”

“I want you to defend him _and_ keep it private until he agrees to testify.”

He grimaces at the sound of frantic clicking on the other end, the sound of her laptop keyboard and an angry curse in lieu of a proper response. 

“I opened this stand for a reason,” she says finally. It’s not an outright rejection, though, so he presses forward.

“Yes, we all know how fond you are of disappointing your parents, Wellbelove. Make them a presentation about your sexuality if you’d really like to shock them. Wait until they find out that their precious daughter doesn't like men.”

“I don't like _anyone_ ," she mutters. "What if I want to make accessories for the rest of my life, Pitch?” She returns, but he can hear the sound of her case snapping open even as she scoffs at him.

“You don’t,” he says, more to remind her of her own alcohol soaked monologue, about her passion for her job, after a grueling company party. 

“Fuck you. Seriously, you’re awful.” There’s a smile at the very end of her anger, somewhere. A huffed laugh, disbelief forcing the sound.

“I know.”

“Get his testimony on recording. Email it to me if you can, and keep gathering information. I’m not starting anything until I have a chance. Christ, how am I going to get back, I’ve got to file the records again, and talk to the court, and get in touch with-”

“Thank you,” he says, knowing that she’s already hung up before he even glances at his phone screen.

Overhead, the clouds flash with lightning, thunder coming just after the bright flash, like a warning. The air hums with energy, prompting him to look over at Simon in alarm.   
He’s curled up, body twisted in a tight knot of limbs over limbs, to cover as much of himself as possible. His lips move silently, an unnerving imitation of speech without sound.

Baz finds himself moving towards him as the sky rumbles angrily, at least to get him under the wagon before it starts raining. The water packet resurfaces from his pocket and he spells it to stay upright as he moves towards Simon. Before he can think twice, he presses _record_ on his mobile's audio player, slipping it into his pocket.

His stomach twists uncomfortably when he gets close enough to hear him, repeating _‘I’m sorry’_ over and over again, in a voice that Baz has never heard. His face twists into a pained expression and thunder comes again, breaking the stillness of the night, as he starts to laugh. 

Baz goes incredibly still, stopping right before he touches him. The sound bubbles up, tense and tearing holes through the silence in between claps of thunder, and he recognizes it as the laugh that he heard in the library, right as he caught him. Baz’s heart slams against his chest painfully, as Simon’s face continues to contort and crumple with sadness. 

“ _Simon_.”

His voice comes out a choked off whisper, worry coursing through his body and running tension all through him. He feels like a live wire, body numbing with terror and adrenaline.

It’s drizzling now, but he barely feels it, even as the wind whips through and makes him shiver violently.

_**Simon** _

“I’m sorry,” he says.

It’s not like she ever listens. It’s not like Simon ever got to say it when she could have.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, because it might stick this time, if he says it again.

_**Baz** _

“I didn’t forget you,” he’s mumbling. Baz has whispered his name at him four times already and he can’t seem to find the courage to grab his arm and wake him up, so he gapes and whispers instead, trying desperately to wake him up without touching him. 

“I know, I know it was my fault. But I’m fixing it, it’s okay now. It’ll be okay. I’m sorry. I-”

Lightning catches and illuminates Simon’s tear stained profile. Rain pours down, washing away the streaks and red rawness in his features. 

Just as Baz finally brings himself to wake him up, his eyes open wide, another bout of lightning lighting them for a brief flash. And then he’s knocking Baz to the ground, sobbing into his chest.

_**Simon** _

When he sees Baz’s face over his own, cracked open and full of pain, he can’t help it. He’s shaking, feeling like his seams are bursting open, like he can’t hold himself together anymore. 

“It’s – I’m sorry. _Nightmare_ ,” he gasps incoherently into Baz’s neck, trying desperately to stifle his sobs as he balls his hands into fists in his shirt collar, to gather the strength to pull away, but he can’t. 

It’s been so long since he’s been held, since he felt solid. Slowly, almost carefully, Baz brings one hand up to cradle his head and the other wraps tight around his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” Simon says, over and over again. It’s an apology for Baz just as much as it is for Ebb.

“It’s okay,” Baz says, voice hesitant and muffled against Simon’s head, and he sobs a bit harder at that, twisting his hands further in his shirt. Embarrassment and fear press at his aching self, but he feels so distant thing from both of them. Here, with Baz cradling him and shushing him. He feels lulled, even with the guilt sitting painfully in his chest. 

Everything’s disorienting – he feels like he’s still locked in his head. The night air is sticky and heavy with cool moisture, and Baz’s body feels like an extension of his own, in the dark. He can’t tell where his hands are, where his legs start and Baz’s end. It’s a dizzying tangle, and he finds himself sinking into it, frantically trying to collect himself. 

“Tell me about it?” Baz asks quietly. His voice is steadying, enough to widen Simon’s focus and coax him into this settled resignation, more exhaustion than terror.

It’s raining, cold droplets weighing down his clothes. He shivers closer into Baz, forgetting boundaries. He’s here, asking Simon about it, even though they’re both getting soaked and it’ll be a pain to deal with later, and they’re meant to be keeping distance. Or, Simon was at least. Probably both of them should be.

He could always pass it off as an accident, an instinct of night terror. _One, two_. He breathes in and out, desperately trying to reign in his breath.

“I used to wake my mentor up with my thrashing,” he mumbles into Baz’s skin. He can feel his lips brushing over his chest, and it feels oddly comforting to be so close, like his secrets aren’t quite so big when they’re hidden quietly against skin. 

A shaky breath escapes him when Baz’s fingers shift to the back of his neck, digging in. “Right, so he’d try to get me to go back to sleep. Spells and magic stuff, and none of it ever really worked. And he’d tell me that it was just a nightmare, and he never really got why, like, it made me cry harder.”

Simon feels Baz’s nod, sharp chin digging into the top of his head. “I had a friend, well. She was more like my mother, I guess. Even though I didn’t have one really. But the thing is, she really didn’t have much to eat, ever. And I remember my mentor sending me off to look for stuff to trade and by the time I got back. And-” 

A tiny gasp escapes him here. Baz doesn’t press, and it’s exactly that which encourages Simon to finish. “He didn’t let me leave the house for two days.”

A pause, a breath. Where he’s sure embarrassment should be creeping in, comes this strange sort of comfort instead, a lull. Baz’s chest heaves in time with his, deep breaths steadying him. The rain is so loud that he can barely hear himself, so he leans up to tell the rest in his ear. “He told me she starved to death. She didn’t have the money to keep feeding herself, and he didn’t want me to see her before he could bury her.”

Baz stiffens under him, and Simon realizes his mistake in saying too much. Fear crawls up his throat, constricts his voice so that even if he had anything else to say, it wouldn’t come out.

“And?” 

The sound of Baz’s voice is faint, just a whisper cutting through the sound of thunder and rain pounding the sand around them. 

“What?” Simon whispers back, not daring to pull back and look at him.

“The nightmare. What you said about the nightmare.”

Relief floods through Simon instantly, when he realizes that Baz didn’t pry into the truth. He _knows_ what it sounds like. He’s had fleeting moments of doubt, ugly memories of nightmares where Mr. Salisbury’s hiding the truth about her death. But he always knows better, always wakes up and is thankful to be the person to help, to make sure no one ever ends up like that again.

The thought makes him ache again, and he has to tilt his head so he doesn’t sob into Baz’s ear.

“It’s not a nightmare, is what I wanted to tell him,” he says, when he gets himself back under some control. “Because, well, it’s still _there_. When I wake up, it’s not one of those things where you wake up and stop panicking and everything’s fine. I used to wake up and stop panicking and then feel this weight, all day. On my shoulders. In my chest.”

 _Because nightmares don’t continue into the day_ , he wanted to say. _Nightmares don’t keep people in bed for days on end, don't make people forget their own face._

He’s crying too hard to get any of it out, feeling weak for never saying it to the person who needed to hear it. And now to break down in front of someone’s who’s working to put him away, who could use this as evidence. Ridiculous and naïve, like the child he keeps claiming not to be.

“That’s alright,” Baz is saying, smoothing his hand through Simon’s wet hair. “I understand.”

It’s not enough to ease his anxious mind, but it convinces him to stay, just a bit longer. The way Baz is holding onto Simon just as tight, like he’s shielding him, makes him believe that it’s not entirely about what comes after anymore. He lets himself believe that his words are safe, for the moment.

_**Baz** _

When his sobbing starts to subside, Baz taps his shoulder gently to nudge him under the cart. He’s never practiced a ‘ _cover me up_ ’ on himself, so he spells it over the cart so that the rain just bounces off of the top. Slowly, he eases them up, careful not to let his leg drag.

Simon gapes at his knee when they’ve settled under the cart together, and it’s only then that Baz notices it’s healed, at least on the outside. Simon flinches back when he touches it, but even so, his knee cap is back in place. Baz isn’t sure if it was the burst of magic from the nightmare, or the tears, but he’s thankful either way. 

He pulls his phone out from his pocket, pressing pause and throwing a glance at Simon, who’s curled up in the corner to watch the rain roll off the air above the wagon. The silence is interrupted by a few sniffles, but he’s calmed down considerably. 

“Are you alright?” 

Simon’s gaze shifts down to his knees at the question, and even this close, it’s too dark to make out his expression.

“I’m fine. Thank you, for, you know. Earlier. And for asking now.” 

Lightning flashes through the gaps of the netting and illuminates his eyes for a second, still red around the foggy blue of them.

Baz wants him to apologize for crossing a boundary, mostly so he doesn’t have to think about how good it felt to hold Simon in his arms, but he can’t find one to complain about, because there wasn’t one set. And he doesn't regret a second of it.

“Baz,” he says softly, and for a second, the rain slows to a stop. A gasp escapes his throat, too loud in the sudden silence, as everything pauses. Even Simon seems shocked, a wounded noise escaping his throat as he looks up and sees the rain frozen in the air around them. 

“I didn’t mean to do that. I –”

What were you going to say, Simon?” He interrupts, feeling something warm and strange settle in his gut. The air crackles with the same energy as before, but they’re still shrouded in darkness. Baz keeps staring, keeps waiting for the lightning to strike and cut through, or for Simon’s voice, but nothing comes. 

He stammers out incoherent sentences and the rain starts again, rushing in a furious drizzle now.

“It was nothing,” Simon says quickly, after a multitude of failed sentences. His fingers knot together in front of him, movements sluggish looking in the dim light. It’s like flipping a switch – reverting him back to his fragile state from earlier. When Baz’s eyes adjust, all he sees is sorrow in his still crumpled face, and the way his eyes are starting to collect tears again.

Finally, lightning strikes. Baz was expecting it to cut through the urgent energy between them, but the tension remains thick in the air. Baz blinks and adjusts to the sudden darkness, catching the deep red glint on Simon’s pinky finger.

“Can I see your ring?” He asks, surprised that he hadn't noticed it before. He crawls closer to him, despite the dangerous urge to wrap him up in his arms again.

“I didn’t steal it,” he says quickly, “She gave it to me a couple months before she died. Ebb. That was her name.”

Baz sits just in front of him, holding his hand out. This close, he can make out his features better despite the dark. All the devastation from earlier has been carefully wiped away, but even then it shows in small pieces – the way his lips press together, all the bright emotion flashing in his wide eyes.

He reaches a hand forward carefully, grabbing Simon’s pinky finger. His hands are shaking, even as Baz tries to steady his hand as much as he can.

“Are you alright, actually?”

Simon opens his mouth to respond but his breath catches, words sticking, unyielding in his throat. He shakes his head resignedly, collapsing in on himself. A tragic portrait, oil on canvas, on this boy. 

“No,” he says, voice floating out onto the air and hanging soft between them, splintering in the quiet. “I’m not.”

He starts crying again, mumbling out that he usually controls himself better, that he’ll be fine if he can get some sleep in, that he’s just been stressed and in pain. Each word sound repetitive, flat like he’s said these things too many times before.

The way he sinks further into Baz’s touch only convinces him that he’s making excuses, that he’s letting himself cry because he’s usually not allowed to. Anger swells in his chest at the thought that his mentor doesn’t let him feel what he needs to, at the fact that his mentor kept him inside the house even while Ebb was being buried. Then, Simon sobs again and drowns all the anger.

Pity is safer, looking at someone’s heart through a window and wishing them well. It’s nothing dangerous like this, like sharing his sadness, like holding him while he swallows it and tries to breathe through the drowning. Baz wishes more than anything that he pitied him, tries his hardest to spin his feelings into something less personal. But the grief winds its way around them both, becoming a tether. 

Time passes, and so does the storm. Somewhere along the way, Baz moves to collect Simon, holding him like he did earlier, ignoring the rush of doubt. At some point Simon falls asleep, but Baz can’t bring himself to move away, to pretend that he’s only doing this for Simon’s sake. 

When he finally falls asleep with Simon still shivering, tucked safely into his arms, he dreams of big bright wings and tears. A rainstorm of them that floods the whole world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello y'all ! here with another update. we are nearing the end of this story, i'm estimating another 5-6 chapters maybe ?? perhaps ?? my outline is complicated. anyway, let me know what y'all think in the comments ! any ideas, thoughts, all that, i love to read what you guys have to say 
> 
> as always, kudos, bookmarks & comments, are appreciated !
> 
> and finally, i cannot thank y'all enough for the support that i receive, it's amazing that anyone at all enjoys my work, so thank you for sticking with me <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essentially, the calm before the storm. Literally. There is a lot of storms in this. There will be another. Physically and metaphorically.
> 
> (and they were wagon mates. oh my god they were wagon mates)

_**Simon** _

  
It’s barely light outside when Simon wakes up after a dreamless sleep. The frigid air bites at his skin, forcing him to move further away from the opening of the wagon with a shiver. His mind is tangled in knots, still sleepy enough that he doesn’t realize exactly where he’s laying at first. Only that his skin feels warm, pressed tightly against something breathing steadily. Slowly, he wakes up, pieces of the night before coming back to him in steady streams. Baz’s arms tighten around him, forcing his breathing to slow.

 _Right_. Surely, he should move away, to prevent the inevitable embarrassment, but he’s too comfortable, can’t bring himself to.

He supposes he can make up some excuse about the cold being too much to move just yet. Or something about his leg. 

Baz shifts closer and Simon has to stifle an embarrassing sigh at the feeling. He can barely feel the cold anymore. The heaviness of yesterday is mostly gone, but he still feels exhausted from the crying. He falls asleep again before he even realizes, moving further into Baz’s arms. 

-

In hindsight, moving away might have been the better option. When his eyes flutter open this time, he’s alone. A quick search finds Baz crouched over the fire, fingers dipping into it quickly and emerging with toasted bread. The water pack is by his side, bigger than Simon’s seen it because of all the rain last night.

It’s the guarded look on his face that makes Simon regret having stayed where he was. Baz’s jaw is set firmly, eyes narrowed but blank. His shoulders are pulled down, taut and aware. Everything about him is screaming _defense_ , just the way he was when they first met. Even from here, Simon can see that his hands are shaking as they pull food out of the flames.

“Good morning,” he says quietly, because he’s not sure what else to say to break away the stone hiding Baz’s expression. Even that doesn’t do much, though. His eyes dip down to glance at Simon but he stays facing the fire, hands not even stilling when he mutters back a simple response that sounds a lot like ‘ _yeah_.’

Simon tenses involuntarily, a response to the tangible distance between them. He knows the silent treatment well enough, knows that it means _leave me alone_ , but he can’t bring himself to when he doesn’t understand why. Especially after last night, this morning. The first time that Simon’s felt safe, probably in years. That Baz helped him feel safe.

“Thank you,” he says. “For last night.”

Baz grunts in reply and Simon’s irritation flares, anger and finally, the embarrassment he’d waited for, swirling sourly in the pit of his stomach. He should bite his tongue. He should keep it to himself before he reveals too much, or realizes something about himself that he didn’t want to. Right when he’s sure it’s going to spill over, that his anger will snap, cold and brittle, he surprises himself.

“Alright.”

 _Later_ , he’ll say something later. Right now he’s thinking of yesterday. Reasoning, realizing that it’s some sort of internal conflict. He can’t reconcile the Baz from last night with this one; the distance between them is the same as the distance he’s putting between he and Simon. A million miles away, crammed in the few feet between them.

_Oh. He could have a girlfriend, Simon reckons. He’s twenty, after all. She could be a fiancée. One who doesn’t like her future husband sleeping with other men._

He shakes his head to dismiss the thoughts, some ugly feeling curling in his chest at the thought.

He’ll just wait until he knows that he’s getting a proper response. If he starts an argument right now with the blank masked version of Baz, it’ll end up in him revealing too much and not getting enough back.

_**Baz** _

Simon is plotting _something_. Not only that, but the angry energy in his face is like a spotlight, and Baz is burning up under his confused scrutiny. 

Baz doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he knows that he’s not going to give it to him. 

To reveal even a single piece of emotion right now, when he’s still thinking about last night, is the last thing he wants to do. He's not entirely sure of what would happen if he did, but the idea reminds him of handing someone a loaded gun and pointing it at his own heart. Simon is searching for something in his face, every time he looks at him. Baz has had too much time to think about what he could possibly find, about what he's so desperate to hide, and not nearly enough to control his expression appropriately. 

He’s not naïve enough to believe that he has feelings for him, not in that way at least. Unyielding attraction, no matter how many times he’s tried to convince himself that there’s nothing attractive about him, yes. But Baz has an aversion to criminals, a sick feeling that he can taste in the back of his throat when he looks at them.

Even then, though… 

When he looks at Simon, all he sees is a boy. And he is, but it’s _more_ than that – it’s everything that makes him the man he is. He didn’t even have to say anything for Baz to figure it out. Looking in between every line of speech, reading into everything from the stunted sentences where he’s said too much, to the way he’d sobbed like he was running out of time. The way he laughs when his face is screaming with terror.

There’s more to it than Simon’s saying. All he’d have to do now is admit it and let Baz help him. 

It’s that which makes him sure that he doesn’t feel anything for Simon. He’s had flings in the past, stray crushes and whirlwind relationships that last a few weeks. Nothing that feels like this. What a terrifying revelation, to want to do anything to make a person okay. He knows what to do with this though – it’s his job to help people. That’s all it is, then, with Simon. 

He supposes he can ask Wellbelove about it later. If he manages to charge his phone again somehow. If Simon will do it, after Baz insists that he’s being coerced by his mentor, and asks him to testify against him, granted immunity and total innocence on cleared charges. 

He’d already emailed the recording to Wellbelove while Simon was sleeping, to which she replied instantly. 

_“Was he_ crying _? Were you_ shushing _him, Basil?”_

_“What does it matter to you?”_

She’d hung up as soon as he hissed out his reply, probably hearing the rawness in Baz’s tone, but she left a single text message right after: _Don’t let your feelings get in the way again._

In response, he’d turned up the brightness all the way and let it sit, burning off all the battery so he didn’t have to face the weight of the truth. It’s that _again_ that loops in his mind and convinces him to put distance between them. Because she’s absolutely, infuriatingly, right. 

Even so, the morning lingers in his mind. He can’t forget everything Simon’s said, nor the feeling of seeking warmth in his arms. The way it felt right, in this unbearable way. Fear creeps in, sickeningly heavy in his stomach when he thinks about how bad he wants to help him, figure out what exactly is happening and get him out of there. But, he can’t escape that _again_. 

It’s his own fault for letting his feelings get in the way, for allowing things to get personal. That’s the whole reason he’s working detective work anyway.

He should have known, really. He _does_ know. 

But he’s starting to believe that Simon’s worth letting his feelings in, even as it discredits everything he’s worked for. Though he's not sure exactly what that means, it fills his stomach with nervous anticipation to think about.

_**Simon** _

He waits the whole day, another few hours burnt out by the incessant heat and bare conversation. After breakfast, most of the tension in Baz’s shoulders dissipates, leaving a relieved sort of ease between them. He thaws slightly, engaging in the smallest bits of truths. 

He tells Simon that he has a penchant for big dogs, which prompts Simon to mention the dog he saw in the neighborhood he passed through. After some hesitation, Baz mentions that he saw it too, although he didn’t stop to pet it. 

“ _Should have though_ ,” he’d said. “ _Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck in the desert with sand all over me, having to relieve myself behind our sleeping area and drink rain from a bag_.”

Simon points out helpfully that all the rain has probably cleaned most of the sand off of him, smiling brightly at Baz’s following jab. In exchange, he tells him that he’s always wanted a pet of any kind, but that his mentor wouldn’t allow it. 

“Too many mouths to feed between us, as it is,” he says, swallowing harshly in response to Baz’s pointed silence, his probing stare. There’s still moments like that, Simon realizes. Silences that are more hostile than anything Baz has said out loud, and Simon’s not sure what he's trying to say, but becomes defensive either way.

There’s also these moments of silence, where Simon can’t drag his eyes away from Baz. Moments where Baz reveals something and Simon feels his heart swell painfully in his chest. _Affection_ , maybe. The same heart-squeezing feeling he gets when Penny’s just come in after a grueling shift of work, her hair all spread out in frizzy clumps on her head. 

He’s disappointed to find that it’s a different feeling from that though, to find attraction lurking at the boundaries of it. His throat goes dry when Baz leans back to stretch and his collar stretches with the motion, a smooth expansion of tan skinned being revealed. Really, he looks a fright, if Simon’s being honest. Even with the rain, his hair is long enough to have become a tangled mess just from the days in the heat. He’s spelled himself a hair tie and pulled it up in this messy bun, but it looks unkempt either way.

And he’s got an awful sunburn on his nose that he can’t spell away no matter how many times he tries. He spends ten minutes trying after Simon points it out, leaning forward to inspect it. Oddly enough, the rest of his face goes flushed after that, the sunburn spreading out over his cheeks and down his neck. 

“Are you alright? Your sunburn got worse,” Simon says, alarmed, and Baz just huffs and presses his hands to his cheeks.

 _He’s attractive despite all that_ , Simon realizes. It’s terrifying, that _despite_. It means that there’s something deeper to his attraction – the way each truth he reveals is more attractive than his stupid (but sunburned) face and gorgeous (still greasy) hair. Okay, no he _does_ look a mess, but regardless, Simon's captured.

Their eyes meet and something in Baz’s gaze shifts, a minute glance down to Simon’s mouth that leaves him breathless for a second.

“I – do you have auditory processing issues?” he asks, feeling a hot flush spread through his face at the small laugh he gets in response. 

“Excuse me?”

“Like, can you hear properly without having to look and see?”

“Why?” He asks, an amused smile still gracing his face.

Simon’s not about to admit he’s been watching Baz watch his mouth when he speaks, and that the prospect of it leading to something _other_ is strangely exciting, underneath his mind’s insistence that it’s truly an awful idea. 

But, he has nothing else to reply to that. Quick thinking is drawing blanks and shitty excuses, and he’s been quiet long enough that Baz’s eyes have dropped back down to his mouth.

“Why, Snow?”

His heart beats ridiculously fast at that, gaze sliding down to Baz’s mouth now. 

_**Baz** _

He’s about to ruin everything, just because he can’t keep it in his pants. If Wellbelove were here, she’d be dragging him back by the collar. For a second, he has a terrible parallel of that day, the sight of her with tear streaks running along her face; her iron grip on his shirt collar as he pulled his bloody hands away from the boy. 

She’d been there the next day too, offering him her card when he’d been shifted into the detective department. Dropping her hand on his shoulder at his supervisor’s mention that he had to take a week off before he started again, and go for a psych evaluation. 

For a second, this is where his mind goes. He’s so deep in his thoughts that he barely notices when Simon pushes his face forward, when their mouths connect for the shortest moment before Simon’s pulling his face back ferociously. 

“I’m sorry!” He squeaks, covering his face behind his hands. Baz is only barely coming out of his haze, registering that Simon’s kissed him much too late. His hand comes up to trace his lips. They don’t _feel_ any different. Did he _really_ kiss him?

“Did you kiss me?” He asks, stupidly from his shock. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Simon responds, voice rushing out in a gust. He’s curling up like an autumn leaf, trying his best to cover his face, hunching over. Baz can see his wide eyes peeking through his fingers, alarm and embarrassment taking over his features. He can’t help it, he laughs. A surprised, bright thing. Like dipping into a cold lake after a sunny day, swallowing his rationality. 

Whatever he'd convinced himself of earlier is melted away, replaced with sweet relief. Baz is undone, unprepared for the rush and swell of affection inside him.

“Simon,” he says. 

Baz watches as a tiny firework explodes over Simon’s head. More laughter bursts from Baz’s mouth as Simon whimpers, mortified. 

“Simon,” he tries again, barely managing to stifle his laughing.

_**Simon** _

What’s the quickest spell to get out of a place? His magic is there, humming under his skin just barely, resurfacing after his knee got fixed. But still, he can’t manage to grasp it.

How to disappear, how to leave? He’ll never live this down, if Baz even decides to let him live after that.

He’s got to get _out_. 

Baz’s laughter bubbles over him, envelops him in this reluctant ease. 

“Why are you laughing?” Simon asks, cringing at the crack in his voice.

“You’re invisible, you dolt,” Baz snorts, hand colliding with Simon’s shoulder. “Okay, I can still feel you. I just can’t _see_ you.”

Simon still doesn’t know what he could be laughing about. There’s nothing remotely funny about this mess, not even a bit. But, he supposes laughter is better than anger. And Baz’s hand is still on his shoulder, so maybe he's going to let him down easy? 

“Simon,” he says again. It’s about the third time now, and he tenses, preparing for whatever he’s going to say. 

“Yeah?”

“Simon. Can I kiss you?”

The answer is startled out of him, and he says yes, without thinking. When their lips crash back together, it’s relief, sweet and effervescent, killing all his thoughts and everything else. Simon gasps into it, barely holding back a startled laugh, and Baz responds with a deeper, breathier noise. His hands go up, needing to catch and hold onto something and wind into Baz’s hair. 

Baz’s hand on his cheek breaks the spell, though he’s not sure which of them pulls away first. 

Simon’s heart thuds out of his chest when Baz searches his expression, and then his own disbelief melts into the bricked up, distant face again. Simon’s heart contorts painfully.

“I need to tell you something,” Baz says quietly. Simon’s nerves are soothed only by the fact that he kept his hand on his face, that his thumb is still moving cautious circles on Simon’s cheekbone. 

“What?”

“Just –”

He scoots back, putting distance between them. “I can’t be so close to you right now. I have something to say, and I don’t want to…”

Voice fading off, his eyes trail back down to Simon’s mouth. Simon can feel his hand moving slowly away, so he grabs it and keeps it on his cheek. 

“ _Simon_ ,” he huffs, admonishingly. 

“Tell me after.”

Baz rolls his eyes mightily, and it brings back his face, pinched worry all put aside.

“After what, you idiot?”

Simon leans in first, but it’s Baz who closes the distance between them this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello y'all, here's chapter thirteen
> 
> thank you very much for continued support and lovely comments that make my whole day !
> 
> pls leave kudos, comments, n' all that if you enjoyed, it is very encouraging <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three truths and a request. Where Baz thought there were two paths lies a third that he never anticipated. How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my old laptop made me reformat everything i posted into a03 from a word doc but this one keeps the format my entire life has improved significantly pls enjoy this chapter okay love u guys bye

**_Baz_ **

Here, in the space between Simon’s lips, is where Baz apologizes. He forgets himself, lowers his defenses; gives mercy. There are many truths that he has for Simon, but the only one that matters here is that he’s wanted this, longer than he’s realized. Longer that Simon will ever know.

After this, there’s no room for compassion, no mercy. All he’ll have is a request, and a few truths. Each kiss acts as apology, just as it is pleading.

Somehow, he knows that this might be it. The crossroads loom in front of him, silent and menacing, and it’s all up to Simon. The ultimatum sits sticky in his mouth, and Simon kills it with his movements, frantic lips and shaking fingertips.

From the urgency in his mouth, Baz has a feeling that Simon sees it too. 

_Don’t let your feelings get in the way again._ He replays the message over and over in his tired brain, looping through the pattern of thinking and then not, letting it disappear as their mouths come together again and again.

He recalls a distant hoping that his feelings would fade after a kiss. As Simon stares up at him when he pulls away, Baz wonders how he could ever let him go, how he could ever mistake this for anything else than what it is. It runs so much deeper than he expected, down to the way his fingertips ache to pull away. It’s wanting everything – to know him, to one day, have something.

“I have to tell you something,” he whispers against Simon’s mouth, against the rush of panic streaming in his head at the thought of losing him.

Simon stills suddenly, face going impassive except for the worried crease of his brow. “Alright,” he whispers back. The word collapses his face – his mouth has become a thin line, lip caught between his teeth, eyes going soft with worry.

Baz slides his thumb slowly between Simon’s eyebrows on an impulse, watching as he turns his face and presses a gentle kiss to the center of Baz’s hand. It makes his chest ache, flames licking up his rib cage.

“I have a truth for you,” he says quietly, and Simon nods. Baz stands up to cast a fire in the sand at their side to keep his hands from shaking. He glances at Simon only once, catches him tracing his lips gently with his finger dazedly, and looks away.

“Go on,” Simon whispers, as Baz sits across from him, rolling his eyes and breaking the hazy spell between them when Simon laughs. The sound rings in the empty air, the only other noise being Baz’s accompanying snort, and the crackle of the fire. “Whenever you’re ready, I mean,” he adds, still smiling faintly. 

Baz cares for him dearly, nearly hopelessly. If telling him the truth diminishes it completely, he’s not sure that he could bring himself to stop caring anyway.

“I don’t know where to begin, truthfully,” he says, and Simon nods again. Perhaps he senses how fragile the moment is, or he’s uncertain of what to say, because he stays silent and offers his hand instead of words. Baz takes it, even knowing Simon can feel the trembling in his own fingers. “My mother. I told you already, but not everything.”

Simon squeezes his hand, fingers moving gently to trace the tops of Baz’s knuckles.

“I don’t have to tell you,” he says, voice coming out low, chased by a shiver when the cold air dances across his skin. “I want to. Because I want you to know,” he adds, voice fading out when Simon’s eyes catch his.

“Thank you,” he replies simply. The gesture is in how his fingers have stilled, how he hasn’t looked away.

“When my father was away on a business trip, our home was broken into,” he starts, and wonders how even though it’s gotten easier to talk about, it’s still just as painful. Details are rehashed, repetitive and nearly the same thing he told the police.

“She could have spelled him immobile; she had the magic to. But he did too. I didn’t even see his face before he left,” he breathes, letting the heaviness grow on him like a second skin.

“Did he say anything?” Simon interrupts, looking sheepish, but unapologetic. Blank curiosity, nothing behind it.

“ _For the people_ ,” he says. “There’s no spell like that, I’ve checked dozens of times. He took whatever he could and any cash my mother had and disappeared.”

Simon looks thoughtful, and worried. Baz wonders if the disappearing spell he’d used was the same one that Simon uses.

“Did he say anything else?” He adds, voice hoarse and urgent. Maybe not so blank as he’d thought.

“Why?”

Simon shakes his head in response and wiping the expression from his face as clean as he can. There are still traces of heavy thoughts lingering, in the purse of his lips, the clench of his jaw. Baz tries to roll off his apprehension, pushes away the urge to ask further in favor of sharing more.

Except, under the apprehension lies the heaviness of the truth he’s just shared. How this is the most alive he’s felt in so long, how his life feels so much like a dark room with candles lighting the corners. Mostly, he misses his mother; an ache that may never leave him. It’s even worse now.

**_Simon_ **

His grief rolls over Simon in waves, thick and unyielding. Normally, Simon’s magic swallows everything else, but now, he can feel the wavering power coming off Baz. And there’s something else about his admission that throws him off. The discomforting familiarity behind the phrase, _“for the people.”_ He feels sick thinking of where he could have picked it up from, but his thoughts don’t wander very far before he’s back in tune, watching Baz’s head fall forward, slowly.

“I’m not going to say that I’m sorry,” Simon says, voice ringing in the quiet, faltering and trying his best to make sure he’s alright. “I don’t like people apologizing for something they had no place in, so I won’t. But fuck, I _know._ And you’ll be fine, even if you aren’t right now. It’s okay not to be.”

It’s that, finally, that flings Baz from his tense precipice. His head falls forward into Simon’s shoulder and he lets out a shuddering breath. Simon wraps his arms around him slowly, one hand coming up to hold his head close.

“It’s alright. Hush, it’s alright. You’ll be alright,” he says, and Baz makes a low, wounded noise that makes Simon ache straight through. Baz’s arms come around Simon’s waist and they stay, waiting until Baz’s dry sobbing subsides, until he stops shaking in Simon’s arms. It’s a mirror of Simon’s own breakdown, reversed.

He still feels safe here, holding him instead of being held. He wants to hold him through it all, to help him through everything. It’s alarming and comforting all at once, to realize so plainly what he wants suddenly when he’s spent so long avoiding the thought. If he devoted more thought to it, he could entertain the idea that perhaps it’s not something to contemplate. That maybe, it’s just something he should know.

The simplicity of that doesn’t extend very far.

_Does this mean I’m gay?_ He can figure it out later, though, if it means anything. 

Baz pulls away, raising his eyebrow as he always does at the stupid look Simon’s sure he’s wearing. He still looks lovely (even crying), and the look he gives Simon is just as condescending as usual. It kills his every thought, all his doubts. When he goes in for a kiss, Baz meets him halfway. It’s just a brush, gentle. Reassurance, for both, that it’s okay.

He thinks that maybe he’ll never get enough, and the thought of _after_ makes his blood cold.

He doesn’t want to ask. Asking means getting the truth, and he’s not sure it’ll be a good one.

“There’s more to that,” Baz whispers, on the edge of composure once again. His mask has slid back into place, a careful concealment of everything he’s feeling. Simon waits, pressing a kiss to Baz’s knuckles.

“After, I threw myself into my studies. Graduated a year early and went straight into police training.” He takes a breath here, and his eyes go distant, gaze landing somewhere over Simon’s shoulder. “There was an incident, a little over a year ago. It wasn’t the first to happen, but it was the last they would tolerate.” 

Simon sucks in a breath when Baz’s eyes focus back on him. “The chief of the force transferred me into detective work after I went in for a psych evaluation. Results were mixed. Diagnosed officially with emotional disturbance and high functioning depression. On the verge of being diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. I’d been using excessive force, running myself into the ground doing chases, always on the edge of my rope. And I never stopped looking for him.”

“Jesus, Baz.” Simon feels tears well up in his eyes before he can stop them.

“I have another thing to tell you,” he whispers, breaking through Simon’s turmoil. “And it’s going to be confusing. But I’m being completely honest with you, I’d swear it on my mother’s grave.” His tone is a mimicry of pleading, carrying all the weight of what he’s just admitted. His eyes, more grey than the clouds in the sky, are blown wide and pained.

But something in his tone is worrying, has Simon’s panic ebbing back in, pushing past all the ache and solidifying the _after_ once again in his vision. He sees the ultimatum clearly now, the make or break of this. He wonders if this is where they part, where the kisses end up meaningless.

Wonders if maybe they always were.

“This is where you’re asking something of me, right?”

“One more truth,” he says solemnly, “and then I’ll ask.” He’s so close that Simon can feel his breath ghosting across his cheek, but he feels so far away. The last part of his sentence sounds like a fragment of a goodbye, and Simon can’t bear to be this close to him for something like that.

**_Baz_ **

He’s receded like the tide. The clouds above them thicken so much that Baz can’t see the moon anymore, light getting caught in the layers of rain that hasn't fallen. Simon’s eyes are vibrant and bright blue, pupils dilating so far that Baz can barely see them where they’re swallowed by iris.

“What,” he says, flatly. A statement, more than a question. Every layer of defense goes up instantly, as Simon falls in on himself to get further away. Something tightens in Baz’s chest, and he gapes when Simon’s hand goes up to his own chest, pressing at the same spot where Baz’s hurts.

“The poverty in Watford isn’t significant,” he chokes out, trying to smudge out the pain. Simon makes a face and he continues quickly, cringing at his mistake. “It’s not unimportant. I mean, the rate of poverty is very, very low. As in, less than two percent of unemployment, and there are plenty of homeless shelters for those who do need them.”

“What the fuck are you saying,” he hisses, shifting backwards like a caged animal, furious and unable to move. Baz spells him under his breath, and Simon’s face contorts into pointed rage as he stumbles to his feet, knee buckling under his weight despite the numbing spell.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he growls, regaining his balance and stalking away.

His magic is leaking out everywhere, drenching Baz in fury. He tries his hardest to tamp down the anger swelling in his chest, to not snap at Simon, to remember he doesn’t know better.

“I didn’t,” he says. Despite his effort to control his temper, his words come out through clenched teeth, and Simon clamps down on the anger, returning it tenfold with his glare.

“Then don’t do _that_! What? What are you implying? What are you asking of me?”

Thunder rumbles distantly, and Simon’s eyes close tightly, pain rippling through his features. Baz sees his mouth open, but the wind picks up and drowns out whatever he has to say.

“I’m not _implying_ anything. I’m asking you to testify against your mentor. He’s been having you do his dirty work and he’s _lying_ to you.”

Simon lets out a watery, disbelieving laugh, as the clouds pile over each other. “You think he’s lying to me?”

His voice is so quiet in the roar of the wind that he’s not sure Simon will hear it when he responds, “I know he is.” It’s the lightning flashing somewhere above them, dangerously bright, that tells him Simon heard.

_Save him_ , his mind whispers, as Simon walks off, clouds trailing over him like a crown.

But he doesn’t know how to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

**_Simon_ **

Memories flash through his head, as he limps away awkwardly. He thinks of his leg being better and it quells the ache long enough for him to keep moving. 

All that’s left are his thoughts, each memory in his head insistently prodding at him to remember.

They start to come in flashes, so vivid that at first, he thinks it’s lightning. He remembers shaking hands, neighborhood people. Why didn’t he ever _think_?

It was right there in front of him, the whole time. How each man coming through the door to be introduced was round faced, each with perfectly fitting clothes. Mr. Salisbury’s laugh, coming through bright and exaggerated.

_“Fine boy, you’ve got David.”_

_“Yes well, he’s doing what he can. I’ve got to thank him for it, look where it’s gotten us.”_

_A slurred praise, shouting cheers and syrupy laughs trickling through the thin walls._

_“It’s for the people, gentlemen. This is the future, after all.”_

There’s that phrase. _For the people_. It sends a chill through Simon, and thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. Lightning strikes, charges the air, and his eyes fly open.

He’d been too young to realize. How could he have known the way wealth looks on a man if his only reference was his own gaunt reflection in the mirror? If he only caught flashes of it on the street – tailored clothing, heavy, sparkly things.

And Ebb, with her short blonde hair that she cut herself for as long as Simon had known her. Teary eyes and jagged silences, always swelling to fill the quiet room. What had she been sad about, all the time? What had she wanted to tell him?

Baz is shouting at him, but there’s nothing he can do to reel in his thoughts now. His body feels like a live wire, all energy and confusion and anger. And there in the middle of it all, the despairing eye of the storm, is the realization that there’s nothing else for him.

**_Baz_ **

At first, he thinks it’s an illusion, his eyes being blinded by lightning and confused. But then he sees it, the way lightning is streaming _from_ Simon. Jumping across his skin as thunder rumbles around him, catching in his hair and making his eyes glow from the inside out.

“Simon!” He yells, pain snaring something delicate in his chest at the thought of losing him. Or maybe that’s the truce, mirroring the pain that Baz inflicted back onto him. _Is this his fault?_

A noise slips between his teeth as the lightning stops, and Baz has to blink away the afterimage imprinted in his vision before he catches a glimpse of Simon again, sprawled on the floor.

**_Simon_ **

He can’t move anymore. All the magic is roaring around him – it’s in the rain and the thunder, the lightning that ran through his body.

The fight is gone. He can’t even protest when Baz presses a hand into his back, between his shoulder blades.

He wants to yell at him, to tell him that there’s nowhere else for him to go. That he doesn’t know how to do anything properly, that there’s no room in the world for him after so long. To ask him why he offered him the truth, and a lifeline, when Simon can’t accept it.

Villain or not; Mr. Salisbury is all he has. Liar or not, Simon has no choices here.

But he’s too tired to say anything, so he stays quiet, and lets his tears roll down.

“Simon,” Baz says quietly, and Simon lets out a defeated sob, body surging with just enough energy to shift over and knock Baz over, head on his chest.

Here is the sprawl, defeat. The kind that feels more like winning than losing; the prize being the safety of solid chest, his arms around Simon’s body. It’s forgiveness for yelling, and for being stubborn, for going off. Acceptance, running deeper than the kisses did, more than Simon feels he deserves.

It’s raining again. _Déjà vu._

“I _can’t_ ,” he mumbles, and Baz runs a hand through his curls, fingers carefully untangling the stubborn knots.

“Come with me,” he whispers. “This doesn’t have to be anything, Simon, just come with me. Nothing has to happen between us, just let me help you.”

Simon shakes his head, feeling his sobs get caught in his throat. “I can’t. Baz, he’s all I have.”

“But you believe me?” He asks, tone urgent, insistent. _Hopeful_. Simon aches, and aches more to recognize it in his tone.

He nods, and Baz’s arms hold him closer. “So, _come_.”

“I _can’t_.”

“Why? I’ll help you, Simon, you’ll be fine.”

Simon pulls away at this, needing to look at him, to make him understand. Baz flinches when they make eye contact, and his face screws up. “What, why is it so difficult?” His voice is smaller than Simon’s ever heard it. Uncomprehending, the last dregs of hope floating in his confusion.

“There’s nothing for me, I have no one else.”

An ache starts right above his ribs, spreading like fire through his chest.

“You have _me_ ,” Baz whispers, voice cracking. “I’m _here_ , let me help you.”

**_Baz_ **

There are two paths to a crossroad, and Simon has chosen one, like Baz expected. Except, this isn’t what he wanted. At worst, it was Simon walking away from Baz and never looking back. This – Simon helpless, screaming at him from across the gap - is unexpected, and hurts much worse.

_I can help him_ , he thinks, _just not like this._

“How could you call me a child?” Simon asks, and the sound of his voice, rough and small, makes him ache inside. “You want me to run away from everything I’ve ever known, to testify against the man who’s taken care of me for so long? Is that not a child’s fantasy? What happens then Baz? How could you be so certain everything will work out?”

His hands, balled up in Baz’s shirt, are shaking. Tears flow steadily, and he blinks them away almost angrily, not looking away from Baz.

“It’s better to try, isn’t it? He’s _lying_ to you, Simon. He’s _using_ you.”

“Aren’t you? Using me, to put him away?” He asks, eyes flashing, bitter and so sad.

“I want to _help_ you.”

“ _Why_?”

It might have hurt less if he was yelling, if there wasn’t still rain, washing away his stubborn tears. If his hands weren’t still holding onto Baz’s shirt desperately.

“It hurts,” he mumbles, touching his chest. “It _hurts_ , but I can’t Baz.”

He understands, suddenly. The truce. The pressing ache in his chest, the burn of unshed tears behind his eyes. Pain inflicted, mirrored back. Simon’s hurting and Baz feels it all the same.

“That’s why. That’s why I want to help,” he whispers back, knowing that Simon can feel Baz’s heart beating in time with his own. He places his finger on Simon’s cheek, tapping to the steady drum of his heart.

Simon lets out a sob and Baz’s world shatters, falls to black fragments around them. He’s falling, falling and then the world is gone, swept right out from under them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i appreciate the patience, hello y'all. i switched laptops recently and watched as all my exported files disappeared, and thus, i found myself mourning the completed chapter that i was about to publish. i rewrote it, and found that to be a blessing in disguise, as this is much, MUCH better than what i had originally. 
> 
> anyways, i hope this chapter is lovely to y'all - it has been one of my favorites to write - and i appreciate kudos & comments if you wanna talk abt it <3
> 
> thank you to every person who sticks with me, and to my fav consistent comments - y'all make my day


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed and Simon makes a decision for himself for the first time in his life. They've made the first step in the right direction, but it's going to take a walk through hell to find heaven again.

**_Simon_ **

When the skylight comes into view, Simon's first thought is that he's died and come back home in the afterlife. The thought sends him scrabbling up instantly despite the scraped, heavy feeling over his whole body, and he digs his fingers into his pulse point, desperate and relieved when he feels it beating quickly under his skin.

His heart drops when he catches sight of Baz on the floor next to him, face contorted in pain and hair splayed out all over the place.

“That hurts worse the second time,” he groans, and Simon lets out a startled laugh, relief flooding over him a second time at the sound of his voice. “Where are we?” The question makes the relief fade away, as he realizes that they're in his _home._ Either Mr. Salisbury is here already, or he'll be here soon. If he's home, surely he heard them land in the room, and if not, the sound of Baz's voice. 

Just then, something creaks right outside the door, and Simon has two seconds to think about hiding before Baz goes translucent next to him. He shuffles close just in case, extending his magic further and hoping it covers them both.

_“Simon,”_ Baz whispers, but Simon just clamps a hand over his mouth in response and glares at him. If Mr. Salisbury found him here, _now,_ with the detective on his case…

Simon doesn’t know what he’d do – to either of them.

The door opens and his pulse skyrockets, heart jumping into his throat, as Mr. Salisbury steps in, trailed by a man that Simon’s never seen before. 

“You heard it too, sir?” The man’s voice is pleasant and amused, not at all matching the stiff set of his shoulders, the way he keeps glancing at Mr. Salisbury out of the corner of his eye.

“I did,” he responds curtly. Baz stiffens under Simon’s touch at the sound of his voice. Their eyes meet, Baz’s wide and afraid; angry. His jaw is clenched under Simon’s fingers, and his eyes slip shut as he takes in a shuddering breath.

“Figured he’d be back by now, but I suppose I was hearing things.”

“Where do you reckon he’s run off to?”

At this, the men finally turn towards the door, and Simon relaxes unconsciously without their gaze, though he taps Baz’s cheek as he moves his hand from his mouth. It draws his attention enough to twine their fingers together tightly. Simon silently wishes for a muffling spell to cover Baz’s harsh breathing. 

“I don’t know,” Mr. Salisbury voice fading as he walks out. “But I need him back right away. I heard they’ve finally handed the case over to Natasha’s boy, and the last thing I need is that magic wielding brat involved. I suppose his father will be too busy doing business to notice if his son goes missing.”

Simon flinches and chances a look at Baz, whose entire body is held taut, shaking against Simon. He can barely feel his fingers anymore from how tight he's holding on, and the look in his eyes makes Simon breathless. He’s become completely unguarded now, anger burning through his gaze, and just underneath that, fear.

**_Baz_ **

He could go back in time, back to his old family home, and relive that moment over again. A thousand times, a million. And each time, it’d be the same voice as the one he just heard; he’s surer of that than anything else. His thoughts are careening, weaving themselves into the anger burning in his chest. 

_Magic wielding brat_. He supposes that’d be him.

Then, _what next_?

He doesn’t have the time to think about it, because Simon’s gaze is burning into the side of his head.

“What?” Baz asks flatly, trying his best to quell the rage threatening to escape him. His mother’s killer; Simon’s mentor. He almost laughs at how ironic it is. The simplicity of it, and the difficulty.

If not for Simon, he’d have knocked him over right then. Fucking _finally_. He might lose his job, might go to jail for breaking and entering, but he could say he received an anonymous tip to cover himself. And then after all those years, his mother could rest in her grave. _Baz_ could rest, knowing he’s incarcerated.

If not for Simon, he reminds himself. Because of him, Baz isn’t going to do any of that. He’ll keep playing cat and mouse, but this time, it’ll be with the mentor. Tail him, wait for him to slip up. Drive to the furthest payphone in town, call in a tip to the station, and give it to the police. And he’ll wait.

He’s waited this long. He can hold out a bit longer, even if it's killing him. 

At least until his heart rate has slowed down. Until Simon stops gaping at him and finally says something. When he finally speaks, Baz is sure that he’s dreaming, or maybe that he’s willed him to speak.

“What did you say?” He frowns and Simon repeats himself incredulously. Baz pulls his fingers free, ignoring the hurt in Simon’s face.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” He asks again, frowning back at him. Baz sneers at him, standing up jerkily. The pain of travelling so suddenly, through so much magic, is intensifying behind his eyes, and he clumsily mumbles a pain relief spell.

It doesn’t help.

“What do you expect me to do?” He asks through gritted teeth. Simon stands now, anger catching on the shock and igniting in his eyes.

“Natasha,” he says, and Baz flinches. “That’s your mother isn’t it? _Baz_ –”

“What the fuck do you want, Snow? You told me already that you have nothing without him. I can’t do anything to him without proof, and you won’t testify. So, what? _What_?”

Simon hunches in on himself, a caricature of the furious boy that Baz met in the desert. “I couldn’t testify for him telling me what to do,” he grits, locking eyes with Baz. “But this is _different_. Give me something, tell me what to do,” he finishes, voice a roar by the end of it, so loud that Baz can hear it echo in the silence.

Baz suspects he’s spelled them muffled, because no one comes bursting back in. When he glances at the door, the lock is latched firmly in place, although neither of them touched it.

“What do I do?” He asks again, quieter this time.

“What do you want me to do, Simon?”

He shakes his head, hands coming up to tug at his hair, prodding at his face. Angry, frantic movements. There’s that pattern breathing again, nearly familiar now after so many times hearing it. Baz is rather worried that he'll cause another storm inside. There's really no way to be discreet about something like that, so he wills him to calm down.

Simon must know what Baz is thinking because his hands slow, and his breaths get steadier. “I don’t know. I just. I don’t want to hurt him, but…”

Baz knows the last part. _But he deserves it. But your mother. But_ you _._

Slowly, carefully; he steps into Simon’s space.

**_Simon_ **

He’s been told what to do for his whole life.

Penny’s been a secret kept, their meetings always carefully timed, unless Mr. Salisbury was out for the day. His ring’s always carefully taken off when he comes home, tucked into his sock right at the ankle so Mr. Salisbury never tried to sell it off.

And the first thing he did when he got home was hide. Not just Baz. Even as everything blurs in his head, that detail stands out the most.

_What do you want me to do, Simon?_

_What do you want Simon?_

To be free. There’s no cause anymore, no reason to live like this. No poverty to help, no man he needs to serve anymore. Want to make his own decisions.

_Baz_.

His voice breaks through Simon’s swirling thoughts, solid. A safe space, always, even if that goes against everything Simon's been taught.

“Think about the man you want to protect,” he says, and Simon does. He thinks of Mr. Salisbury, and the cups of tea and his mattress, swallowing his grief. He thinks of the man who’d carefully bandaged his fingers after slamming them in the door, and the man who glows with pride when Simon brings back a pocketful of things, even brighter when it's a rucksack full. 

“Think about him,” he urges again, some urgent emphasis that Simon catches on to. The murderer, he means. Think of the man who insisted that his nightmares were passing terrors. The one who slammed his fingers in the door in the first place, just to see him heal himself, over and over again. How that process – healing over and over – has made up his entire life. How he hasn’t made a single decision for himself in years, and how _sick_ of it he is.

This is where he lets go.

Slowly, he moves into Baz’s space too. Not an embrace, not a collapse. The sprawl of defeat, falling apart in each other’s arms, is long gone. This is standing on equal ground, give and take, a push for a pull. It’s something he’s never known, something he’s never had the choice to want in the first place. Freedom and safety, here, in his arms, but there’s _more_ to it. Everything outside of whatever they have.

A whole world full of more.

**_Baz_ **

“I’ll testify.” His voice is wavering, either from fear or anticipation. Both probably, Baz gathers from the look on his face.

“And, he’ll stay in prison,” he adds, and he only refrains from rolling his eyes because he remembers that Simon knows nothing about law. 

“If he confesses to the murder of my mother,” Baz reminds him, fighting his sarcastic impulse to be gentle with him. Simon nods resolutely, and Baz is rewarded for his consideration in the form of Simon stepping even closer. He’s so close now that Baz could count his eyelashes if he wanted to, if he had time. If Simon would let him.

“The murder of your mother,” he says, a bit breathlessly, “And of Ebeneza Petty.”

His lower lip is trembling, but his jaw stays clenched firm, and he nods again.

“I’m not sure yet. But… I know how it sounds. I know. Come with me to her home please, help me look for something,” he pleads, and Baz nods, wanting more than anything to smooth out the rippling of Simon’s voice. He’s not sure where they stand, whether Simon wants more from him or not, so he keeps his hands planted firmly by his side instead of drawing him close like he wants to.

“Let’s go, Snow.”

Simon frowns at him, linking their fingers together. Baz sends a questioning look at the frown, though he's more confused by the hand-holding. Something bubbly floats up in the center of his urgency and makes him a bit stupid, before he gathers himself once again. It probably only lasted a second, but from the look on Simon's face, it wasn't as imperceptible as Baz had hoped.

“Simon,” he corrects, before closing his eyes tightly and squeezing Baz’s fingers.

“Where is it and when are we going?” He asks, and then Simon grins at him and he catches on. “Oh, _motherfucker_.”

The world goes dark again, a flash of Simon’s smile being the last thing he sees before everything fades out.

-

“You’re going to kill me,” Baz gasps against the sidewalk, when the world flashes in front of him. “I’m going to die. This isn’t even legal.”

“Call the police then,” Simon shrugs, then snorts, rubbing his hand over Baz’s back as he coughs violently. A woman strolling by with a child mutters something about drunks and Baz nearly falls over in his haste to collect himself.

“Tell her I’m sick,” he chokes out between coughs, and Simon loudly asks him if it was the food they’d eaten for dinner.

“Must have been the curry,” he announces, and Baz looks up just in time to see them cross the street away from them, looking mildly disgusted.

“Wonderful. Not only was that an awful excuse, but she's probably going to call the police for public intoxication.”

Simon just stares at him.

“I’m a _detective_ , Simon, they’re different,” he huffs, and he receives a disbelieving look in response.

He sobers as soon as he turns to face the door, though, shoulders going tense and still. Baz puts a steadying hand on the back of his neck, hoping that Simon doesn’t flinch away. He’s rewarded with a small smile, one that hangs for a delicate second before it falls away to reveal the worried line of his mouth underneath.

“I know it’d be good if we found something, but…”

He trails off, head falling forward. His body seems to tilt off axis when he does this, until everything hunches forward in on him. _Atlas_ , Baz thinks, _holding the world on his shoulders_. Silence rings heavy between them, and Baz steps forward into his space again. Reassurance, and support, even if it's nothing more. 

“You don’t want to,” he guesses, and Simon gives a watery smile, raising his eyebrows like they’re in on the same sad joke.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he breathes on a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t.”

He looks contemplative for half a second, gaze shifting vaguely downwards, then he speaks like he can't help it, words spilling out in a tangled rush.

“Where do we stand?” As soon as he finishes, his face goes the color of the ruby glinting on his finger. Baz guesses he's fighting his embarrassment, because even though he's staring straight into his eyes, the edges of him are blurring, like when he'd gone invisible after kissing him.

And, Baz _would_ like to talk about it, really, though this is the worst possible timing. It's something for later, not when they’re not standing on the doorstep of his deceased friend’s home trying to figure out if she was murdered.

“Is that the conversation you want to have right now?” Baz asks dryly, feigning a casual attitude, and Simon coughs, flushing darker.

“I, uh. It’s that –”

“Your words, Simon.”

The embarrassment fades for a second as he glowers, and Baz makes a mental note to avoid that phrasing to keep that dark look from crossing his face again.

“We can talk about it after?”

At that, he nods, mumbling an “ _okay_ ” as he turns toward the door, shoving it open abruptly. Baz blinks in surprise, before settling himself and following closely.

**_Simon_ **

On top of the fear coiling his gut, he feels like a massive idiot.

_Timing, Simon?_

He groans and lets his head drop against the hallway wall, ignoring the concerned look Baz throws his way. “M’ fine,” he reassures him, before pushing up and taking a deep breath.

The room hasn’t changed, although he hadn’t been expecting it to. Though, now that he’s bigger, everything looks a lot smaller. The table in the corner is nearly touching the floor, and there’s a dusty tin of biscuits on it, half opened.

Baz mutters something under his breath, but Simon can’t make out what he’s saying, too focused on the feel of her magic in the room. It’s like hearing her voice, echoing through the room. From the frown on Baz’s face, Simon knows he must hear it too. Little sentence fragments, a gasp and a clatter, all faintly humming in the background like music playing from a crackly speaker. There’s no obvious truth though, and Simon frowns, frustrated, as his hand drags along the wall.

The effect is instantaneous when he hits a certain piece of the wall. His knees buckle under him, and Baz loops a strong arm around his waist to keep him upright, voice tight with alarm. Simon didn't even hear his question, and couldn't answer even if he tried.

Her magic is a wall in his mind, memories being projected onto it like a movie. He sees her hand, ring catching the glare of the sun and spilling ruby tinted light on the wall. Her face, eyes closed tight, and lips pressed together in a firm line. She’s standing, pressing her magic into the wall like a prayer, a warning.

“Simon,” she says in that teary voice, and then she’s faded out. His knees give out and he ends up on the floor, rasping out thick breaths against the dusty tile, raising dust and leaving shaky impressions of his fingerprints. He doesn’t even have time to pull away before he’s being sucked back in, a new memory spilling into his mind.

In this one, she’s muttering quietly to herself with her palms cupped to the floor, like she’s feeling for a heartbeat. It takes her a few seconds before she looks up, staring directly at Simon. It’s like watching a film.

“Oh good,” she says, huffing a sort of relieved laugh, and Simon smiles through tears at the familiarity of it. “Maybe you’ll see this. Maybe he’ll never let you come back here. But if you do…”

Her face lights up completely, the bright expanse of a smile reaching each of her features except her eyes, melancholy as always. “If you do, well. Hiya Simon. I miss you bunches, of course.” He sucks in a sharp breath as the image starts fading out, feeling his face stream with hot tears.

“Fuck,” he says, letting Baz tug him up and away from the floor. “ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats.

“Are you alright? What is it?”

Baz stares at him, concern washing over the blank mask of his face.

“She’s – I don’t know what she’s done. Fuck, it’s, they’re videos or something. Memories. She embedded memories into the house, messages, I don’t know.”

“Do you want to leave?” Baz asks, tone so urgent that Simon raises his head to meet his eyes. He’s completely serious, Simon realizes. In this moment, it doesn’t matter if it’d be better for him to know for certain – he’s willing to go, if Simon can’t go on. Something like courage rises and swells in Simon’s chest, and he shakes his head firmly.

“I need to know,” he says, though he still feels a bit faint. Seeing her face again, hearing her voice, tinged with that perpetual sadness, is a balm for the ache of missing her. She wouldn’t want him to spend his time being sad, after living so sadly for so long. He knows this for sure, if nothing else.

Baz nods and lets Simon take his time to gather himself before he stands up.

**_Baz_ **

He takes his time going around the room, pressing his shaking hands into different objects and freezing for minutes at a time.

Sometimes he cries, locked in place and trembling with a teary smile. Other times he stares straight through Baz where he’s standing, hands locked around a plate or a tiny ceramic goat. The vacancy in his expression is alarming, but the spell always breaks after a while.

“Nothing,” he says, and Baz stays silent, taking it as he hasn’t found what they’re looking for. He continues around, through the bathroom and finally, feeling around the mattress until his hand passes through a slit in the side. His face goes slack with concentration as his arm moves further in, until his eyes widen, and he pulls out a small silver handle.

It’s a mirror. Baz startles for a second when he can’t see his reflection in it, then breathes a shallow sigh of relief when Simon tilts it towards himself, frowning at the empty glass. “Magic,” he shrugs, before taking a shuddering breath and locking in again. This time though, his hand flails out while the rest of his body trembles in place, grabbing Baz’s hand. Magic buzzes through their touch, travelling heavy into his body.

The world whites out, then comes back in startling color. A woman, Ebb probably, is sitting at the grotty little table in her corner, holding the mirror up and humming quietly. Behind her in the reflection, a man paces back and forth rapidly, angry whispers rising from his throat in a growl. “You can’t keep him there, Davy,” she’s saying, voice soft and sad; eyes softer and sadder. Baz can hear Simon gasp somewhere outside the vision, but he’s too focused on the man.

He’s the same one that came into the room, the same one in his house all those years ago. “You can’t tell me what to do, Ebeneza,” he growls back, like a petty child. “He’s not being forced to do anything.”

“You’re lying to him, though.”

“Keeping the truth from him isn’t the same thing. Isn’t it for a good cause?”

She smiles, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Her hands are trembling, distorting the image around the edges. “Political gain? I’ve never been one for politics, you know that. I can't quite understand the point of it all.” Another smile, sad and delicate like the one Simon had given him at the door. “Why are you here Davy?”

Baz finally places the shaking of her hands, the faltering smile on her face. She’s afraid. His pulse roars wildly, heart beating so loud he can feel it in his skull. Simon lets out a whimper and Baz nearly loses sight of the vision with how strong his grip becomes.

“You know why I’m here.”

“I can’t help you,” she smiles.

He almost smiles back.

“I know.”

He pulls out a long, thin blade and she turns the mirror away from him, back to herself as his footsteps creep closer. One last smile for the mirror, not an ounce of anything but resignation in her eyes, and then the vision swims out of view as her gasp is cut off.

**_Simon_ **

The current world comes in a faded, dull canvas, nothing like the vibrancy of the vision. Simon’s fallen on the floor, his hand coming down hard and shattering the glass in the mirror. His breath rocks out of him in heavy gasps while Baz stares dimly at the floor in front of him, at the shards of glass that are vibrating in time to the rapid hammering of Simon’s heart.

They lift slowly, swirling together and catching the sunlight trickling in through gaps in the heavy curtains, before joining closely and dropping a new object right into Simon’s lap.

A disk. He forces his shaking fingers to pick it up, finally managing on the third try. It’s blank on one side, but when he flips it over, he catches sight of the thin letters scrawled on it.

_For Simon, for the people._

Somehow, he knows she’s talking about the real causes. All the people he’s hurt, all the things that Simon’s taken. It’s freedom, a way out, right here in his hands.

All he has to do is take it now.

For Ebb, for the people. For Baz.

To whatever happens next, to figure that out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all ! this chapter has been another one of my favorites to write - all the words just kinda poured out of me - and i'm v glad to have published it
> 
> thank y'all for the support as always, and i'm very happy to receive comments, kudos, and all that. y'all's enthusiasm makes me endlessly happy.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humor and some fluff to balance out all the struggles of the real world. I hope this takes y'all's mind away from the darker stuff happening rn.

**_Baz_ **

Crouching on the floor together, Simon spells out a projector spell that his friend uses to watch movies, and they turn on the disk. For a second, Baz is worried that it won't be enough to incriminate him, or place him at the scene, but it ends up being nearly the same as what they saw in the mirror.

In this video, the first few minutes are dedicated to Simon - reassurances and things that she knew she wouldn’t get the chance to say. He starts crying as soon as she says hi, and doesn’t stop until she’s finished speaking. Baz turns it to himself when Salisbury walks into the room and starts pacing, not wanting Simon to see the rest of it. They know how it goes by now anyway. 

It’s graphic. The mirror may turn back to her when he moves forward, but it does nothing to obscure the noise of the knife through skin, or the blood that pours from her mouth after a few seconds. Baz makes sure Simon’s looking away when the mirror turns back to Salisbury’s wild face, anger coming through in his harsh, panting breaths. He barely casts it a single look before he leaves, slamming a door distantly. 

It’ll hold in court incredibly. He's deluded, wishing, for a second that he could’ve thanked this woman, for having the foresight to record. For all she did for Simon, right up until the end. Right now, he’s got his chin in his hands, staring at the dusty panels of the floor, distant as ever. 

There’s nothing to do about that, besides be there. Silently, or making conversation; holding him or just sitting beside him. Baz understands the grief he’s feeling, remembers it well despite the years that have passed since his mother died. He knows the bad days, aching until the only thing to do is cry. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and Simon shakes his head sullenly. 

“No, I just mean. It’s okay to feel, Simon. It’s alright if it hurts. You have time.”

He cries at that, harder. Baz ends up sitting next to him, holding him close, and then when the sky goes dark; they walk until Simon’s breathing evens out. 

Baz makes up some sob story about a dying pet before Simon gets into the cab to ensure that no questions are asked, and then they’re off. Simon offers a questioning look when Baz gives a specific address, but quickly settles in, falling asleep instantly against Baz’s shoulder. 

It’s all a blur from the moment they get inside his flat. Simon sways on his feet and Baz waves him to his bedroom, bringing him a cup of tea with extra honey. 

“Your friend with the projector spell,” he starts, as Simon’s eyes start to fall closed, “How can I reach her?”

He doesn’t ask further, just scrawls her name on a notepad right before he falls asleep. Baz assures him right before he goes under that he’ll be in the next room. 

He cringes as he realizes that Simon’s fallen asleep in his dusty clothing, but spells him clean silently. He longs to shower - a quick glance at his clock tells him it’s nearing one a.m - but he’s got things to do. 

Then he disappears into the living room to call Wellbelove. 

  
  


**_Agatha_ **

Basil is whipped, with a capital W. 

Agatha has never seen him quite so passionate about a case before, drawing lines and connections between evidence, queuing up Simon’s testimony and the woman’s video. She flinches at the sight of it, but stares fiercely at it until it ends. 

“So? You’ll represent him?” His eyes are urgent and bright, ringed with dark circles. It’s what he’s been waiting for since Natasha Pitch was murdered, since he’d been moved into the detective section at the start of last year. Agatha is suddenly overwhelmed by how proud of him she feels in the moment.

“I will. He’ll be granted immunity if he testifies and confesses appropriately. It looks better if he finds the things he took and offers whatever he can. Also, the rumor is that he’s been looking for an out, and he sought you out to bring it to him.”

  
He’s leaning against the sofa now, eyes shutting as he rolls his neck. “So that’s the story?”   
  


“It is.” His eyes open again and lock on Agatha. She feels a rush of pride go through her at the fierce devotion in his eyes, the satisfaction of where he’s managed to get. 

“Thank you,” he says, uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“Take a shower Baz,” she says, sticking her tongue out at him and collapsing in a heap on his couch. “I’m spending the night, by the way!”

She keeps her eyes long enough to see him wave a hand in clear dismissal, and falls asleep with a smile curving along her face. 

**_Simon_ **

There’s a woman too close to his face when he wakes up, in an unfamiliar bed. At first, he thinks that he’s still dreaming, so he shuts his eyes and rolls over. 

This seems to encourage her to get closer though, tugging his shoulder and turning him back to face her.

“What?” 

“You!” She says, much too brightly for someone who’s face to face with a complete stranger. Her whole face is lit up with recognition though, so maybe she does know him. 

Then…  _ Oh.  _

“Are you his girlfriend?” Simon whispers then, sitting up quickly in shock. “It’s a really long story, I swear it’s not really what you think. He’s a detective, you know, and I’m a criminal.”

She's silent for a second before bursting into laughter, head tossed back with the sunrise sinking into her hair. For a brief, fleeting moment, Simon’s jealous of her beauty, but the thought dissipates quickly when she flashes him an ugly, earnest grin. 

  
It spurs a tentative smile across his own face, though he’s not sure why she’s not furiously kicking him out of their bed by now. He looks around for Baz, but he’s nowhere in sight.

“Here’s a piece of advice: Don’t go advertising the fact that you’re a criminal. And another thing; if I  _ was _ his girlfriend, your explanation would make me a bit more curious.” 

Simon flushes hot, feels the blood rushing into his cheeks and ears. 

“Yeah that was a bit ridiculous. Sorry,” he mumbles. “But why are you… here?”

“In bed? Because I came to check if you were awake and ended up recognizing you. In the flat, well because I’m going to help you out a lot.” 

Simon’s muddled thoughts are still heavy with sleep, so it takes at least a full minute to process that statement. “You. Recognize me?”

She huffs, swiping a hand through her hair and tucking it behind her ear. “Of course, silly. I never forget a face, ‘specially not one as pretty as yours.” 

“Wellbelove, please stop embarrassing him, he looks like he’s on the verge of a stroke.”

For the record, Simon is  _ extremely  _ flustered. From this whole encounter - her recognition, the compliment, her breezy, efficient tone. And from seeing Baz in the doorway, wearing a soft cotton shirt and dark denim jeans. His hair is slicked back neatly, and Simon pouts at the sight, remembering the soft waves it fell in naturally while they were in the desert. 

“Not embarrassing him,” she sings, hopping away from him nonetheless to attach herself to Baz’s arm. “I saw him at the market last year. He was all smiley,” she says, “Were you planning on stealing from me?” 

She’s incredibly easy, too casual. Simon wonders how on Earth Baz could be friends with her. “Uh, no?” He says, tone lilting up at the end. He still can’t place her face, although there is something about her hair that catches his attention. 

“Here, let me help,” she says, lifting her arm. The bracelets on her arm clink together and  _ finally _ , Simon recognizes the adorning beads. 

“Oh,” he says, stupidly, embarrassed that it took him so long, “Then yes, I _was_ going to steal from you,” he affirms quickly, honestly. She pulls the words from his throat before he even realizes what he’s just said. 

Baz groans as the woman snorts, throwing her head back again. 

“Oh, maybe I won’t represent him, Basil. Not if he’s so open,” she gasps between laughs, and Baz slips out of her grasp to hand Simon a mug of coffee. He hadn’t even noticed it when he walked in, too fixated on the jeans and the woman in bed. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, taking a sip and sighing at the taste of sugar on his tongue. Baz watches him, a lovely blush spread over his cheeks. A small smile sits on his face, and then it drops entirely into a scowl when his friend sighs happily. 

“Shut _up_ ,” he groans.

“Don’t be rude,” Simon gasps, and she smiles delightedly at him. 

“He’s got manners, Basil.” 

“He does  _ not _ ,” Baz insists, shooting a glare at Simon, who pointedly turns his face back into his mug. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

-

It takes them all of four hours to explain the entire process to Simon. They drill responses into his head, make him aware of the legal system and the fact that he’ll have a trial by jury due to the circumstances of his case. His story is that he grew tired of being forced to do his mentor’s bidding, and went to find a detective. He just so happened to run into Baz at the Market last year in the process and they formed a friendship, neither knowing who the other was. 

When they figured it out, Simon confided in him and together, they gathered evidence. 

The story says that Simon’s innocent, and they have him repeat it so many times that he learns to believe it, even if it makes his gut twist.

“You’ll say you found the video after going through her things, having to sneak out because your mentor didn’t let you back there.”

“And gave it straight to Baz.”

“As for the days that you two were missing, nobody has to know where you went. Baz, you called in sick and Simon, no one knows who you are anyway.”

“Right,” Simon interrupts drily, mind spinning with all the new information. He’s memorized the story by now, knows well enough what they expect from him, but still. 

He can’t seem to get out of his own head. 

When Agatha leaves (she’d given Simon her first name as she was walking out) he finds himself standing in front of the door, absently stroking the heavy wood panel of it. He wonders how much the flat costs to rent for a second, before cursing the habits of his lifestyle. _Old_ lifestyle, he reminds himself. The thought of it makes him feel like an echo chamber of excitement, equal parts terrified and exhilarated.

Simon hears Baz’s footsteps padding into the room while he has his head buried in his hands, leaning against the door. 

“Alright?”

His voice is soft. Simon looks at him curiously and finds nothing but an open expression, concern flicking casually across his face like he’s been this open all along. Simon assumes it’s meant to be a show of appreciation, for being brave enough to do this. He feels like a liar though, and a coward. He’s  _ scared _ , more than he’s ever been in his life. But what good would it do to explain that? 

“Fine,” he mumbles back, dragging his feet back over to the couch and collapsing onto it. Baz follows, ending up on the floor with his back to the coffee table in the middle of the room, staring at Simon. 

“Does it get… easier?” Simon asks finally, after a few minutes of patient silence. Baz looks hopeful, eyes brighter than they’ve been for a while. And thoughtful, with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he deliberates what to say next. 

“What exactly?”

“This,” Simon gestures vaguely at the air around his head, “I feel. Not good,” he decides, and a weak smile comes to his face when Baz rolls his eyes. 

“You mean you feel guilty?”

“That. Yes. I’ve never felt that before. But it’s an ugly feeling, right here,” he says, tapping the spot under his ribs that’s been aching for hours. “Like I should be the one who’s getting put away.”

“Simon. The story that you’re testifying with isn’t necessarily false.” 

He frowns at that. “What do you mean?”

**_Baz_ **

Oh. 

_ Oh. Simon. _

HIs frown contorts into a squint as he repeats his question, and Baz hesitates. 

“It’s- You aren’t  _ lying _ , not really. It’s just kind of an exaggeration of the truth. The only part of that which is false is the whole way we met, but that’s necessary.”   
  


He pales considerably at that, skin going stark white in the lamp light. Baz watches him fidget, hands jumping from his hair to his ring, and back again. 

“ _ Simon _ .”

“You know, you say my name in conversation a lot more than anybody else I’ve met.”

“Considering you live underground and no one really knows your identity, I take it you haven’t met many people.”

Baz doesn’t even receive a flinch. He just turns on his back, eyes glazed over with worry as he twists the ring around his finger. He’s not sure how to help anymore, if picking an argument won’t work, so he tries to be patient. 

Simon heaves out a sigh, working his jaw back and forth like he’s thinking of what to say. 

“I  _ know _ it’s not fake, not really. But I’m  _ guilty _ , anyway, aren’t I?”   
  


“You’re granted immunity because you’re helping. The charges won’t touch you.”   
  


“Yes I understand that,” he huffs, sitting up now, “But I  _ should  _ be guilty, is what I’m saying.”

Baz can feel his eyes narrow at that, as he tries to figure out the technicality. He knows that it’s guilt driving him, bringing him down, but he can’t think of a single thing to help. It feels a lot like being back in the desert with Simon waging a war on his own mind. 

Baz frowns, watching Simon close his eyes and press his palms to his face. His own eyes slip shut after a while too. 

  
  
“I don’t know what to do,” he laughs, a bit pathetically. Silence rings out between them, and for a second, Baz is sure he’s fallen asleep. 

His voice is soft, nearly a whisper, but Baz hears him all the same. 

  
“Baz.”

“Simon.”

“Is now a good time to talk?”

“Is that not what we were just doing?”

Baz’s eyes slip open right as Simon shifts, so he gets a lovely view of Simon’s face, red from lying upside down with his head hanging off the couch. 

“Yeah, but. Other stuff.”

Baz rolls his eyes, and Simon laughs messily, a spill of a sound that makes Baz’s cheeks feel embarrassingly hot. 

“ _ Us _ , you mean.”

Simon rights himself, sliding over onto the floor in front of Baz so now they’re facing each other, knees touching. 

“Bad time?”

“If you’re avoiding what you’re actually thinking, maybe.”

Simon’s face falls and Baz feels the ache spread in his chest instantly, regret sinking into his stomach. He’s not angry though. His face is resigned as he sighs again, like it costs him all the air in the world to take that one breath.

“I am,” he admits, a rare concession because he’s too tired to fight back for once. “But that doesn’t mean this isn't important.” 

Baz leans back, letting the words spread like warmth throughout his body. “Alright, then talk,” he says, because if he gives an inch, Simon will take it and run for a mile. 

“Um. Okay.” 

And then he’s silent, staring at Baz with a small smile on his face. 

“Christ,” Baz mutters, tilting Simon’s face away with two fingers on his jaw. 

**_Simon_ **

Baz is smiling faintly, though Simon’s not sure that he knows it. It’s the slightest curve of his mouth, just at the edge, but it settles him all the same. 

“Talk, Snow.” 

“Okay, yeah. I’m-”    
  


This is worse than every other nerve wracking thing he’s done. His breathing starts to come in harshly, a staccato pattern. Baz raises an eyebrow at him and takes a deep breath, grounding Simon enough to try and slow his breathing. 

  
“I’ve never been a boyfriend. Actually, I don’t even know if I’m gay.”

Baz scowls at their knees. “Fine.” 

“But I like you, I think.”   
  


“Well that’s promising,” he responds, sarcasm saturating his tone, as his blank mask slides back into place. 

Simon feels his confidence waver, and he growls at the floor. “Look just, don’t be a dick about it.”

“Isn’t that one of the things you like about me? Or is that the exception?” 

He finally looks up, catching Baz’s empty sneer, the twisted anger in his expression. Something below it, something like confusion, or maybe skepticism. Suddenly, it adds up, simmering in Simon’s awareness below the surface. 

“Yes,” he says, “ _ yes _ .” 

“Yes?”

“That’s why I like you. That’s one of the reasons,  _ yes _ . Because-” Simon says, laughing, falling forward with the weight of his relief now. There’s a softness to settle Baz’s stare, a buffer to cover up the weight of his uneasiness. A smile, even if his face isn’t showing it. Simon presses their foreheads together, waiting for Baz to lean in before he starts speaking again.

“Because you’re smart. And unbelievably hard working, and stupid fit too. Just - It’s you.”

He can’t think of another way to describe it, the feelings that have always lingered there bursting in his chest. It’s a curiosity, a need to figure him out, to learn him entirely. And then there’s everything that he already knows, all the things he’s known since the beginning. 

_ It’s you _ , he said. 

“I want it to be you,” he thinks out loud, and Baz hears him, gives him a thrilling, dizzying smile with his eyes closed and leans in. 

**_Baz_ **

He’ll never get tired of this. How could he? 

What’s left now that he’s found his mother’s killer? Now that he doesn’t have a roadblock in the way of his life? 

_ It’s you _ . Baz kisses him harder for it, each time it runs in his head, replaying like a sweet, sun soaked lullaby. He kisses him one more time to fill in the things he is scared to say, all the feelings and thoughts that he has no name for. His brain is a mass of swirling colors, incoherent thoughts spinning hazily.

There are no words for this feeling, he realizes. Nothing at all that could describe the way his care consumes him. Even when he pulls away, he still feels like he’s on fire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, just wanted to say hello n' thank you for sticking with me this far. just a reminder that i hope everyone is staying safe right now during this time. horrible things are happening, and i'd hope that this helps ease your mind a bit from all the darker things. 
> 
> stay safe, strong, and fight for what you believe in. and of course, thank you for the endless support and love <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys chat, eat some honey toast and reflect. Communication is important for everyone, but especially difficult for two fractured pieces of the same puzzle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna be real with y'all - this is unedited, unpolished, and mediocre at BEST. my mental health is not doing the best rn and i am also working on two other w.i.p's , so i apologize for this. i will most likely make minor edits when i feel like myself again. 
> 
> please check the end notes for more information, n' of course, thank you guys so much for reading <3

**_Simon_ **

It takes time, Baz says. They don’t share a bed at night, but he lays there to talk with Simon until he falls asleep, and then he moves to the couch. 

He won’t take back his bed no matter how many times Simon insists he’s slept in worse places. 

_“You saw where I’ve been sleeping for the past years of my life? Just let me take the couch.”_

_“Yes I saw, that’s why you’re keeping my bed for now.”_

He leaves no room for argument, and Simon feels too frayed to even bother starting one. It takes time, as Baz said, but Simon feels like his time is running out. 

The dreams he has are all about Mr. Salisbury, of yelling and drunken muttering. When he wakes up with his chest heaving, breaths struggling as they come in and out of his lungs, he wonders if it’s magic infusing his vision, if they’re more real than dreams. 

He gets to his feet shakily when he can’t rub the images from the back of his eyelids. Moonlight filters in through the gauzy curtains and illuminates the floorboards in front of him as he walks out. Baz is sitting up on the couch in the living room, shining his mobile torch light on some papers in front of him. 

Simon wonders when he sleeps, if at all. Certainly not at a reasonable time. A glance at the clock tells him it’s about to be two a.m. Time feels hazy sometimes, now that they’re back to home. Only a few days in the desert threw off his schedule, a few odd nights of sleep and the lingering restlessness of phantom pain in his leg. 

“Go back to sleep,” Baz says without even looking up from the papers. 

“Nightmare,” Simon responds, prompting Baz’s gaze to finally leave the spread in front of him. They meet eyes and Simon shrugs, tugging at the collar of his shirt, as Baz stares at him. There’s apology in his gaze, but no sympathy. They both know nightmares too well for that treatment. He scoots over and places his hand on the couch cushion next to him in invitation, and Simon shuffles over to sit beside him. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, leaving a few inches between them. He’s about to rest his head on Baz’s shoulder, but thinks better of it when he notices how focused Baz seems on the words in front of him.

“I don’t bite,” he mutters, guiding Simon’s head with a firm touch to lean on him. Instantly, he feels the sleeplessness fade, as he breathes in the sharp scent of cedar. It’s the same body wash Simon’s been using - he read the label in the shower - but it smells stronger on Baz. Simon has to bury his head in his arms to catch it, but it’s better here. 

“Stop smelling me,” Baz grumbles, but he doesn’t move his hand away from Simon’s head, fingers rubbing gentle patterns into his scalp. Simon breathes in deeper in retaliation, just to hear Baz’s scoff. 

It’s enough to draw his attention away, and Simon uses the distraction to place his hand over the torch light. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” He asks, catching the still of Baz’s fingers for a moment before he starts moving again, like he never stopped. 

“Insomnia, I suppose.”  
  


“Don’t they have pills for that stuff?”

“What do you know about that?” 

Simon shrugs, not wanting to admit that Mr. Salisbury had forced them on him when he was restless as a child. Baz tenses a bit, like maybe he’s guessed it, but he stays silent. 

“Are you tired?” Simon asks instead, turning away from the topic. Baz shakes his head, pulling away to rub a hand across his own face.

“Hungry?” Baz asks, and Simon feels his face flush as he nods. Baz stands up and he trails behind. 

**_Baz_ **

Simon is, without a doubt, always hungry. 

Baz’s heart breaks if he looks too deep into Simon’s life for a reason, none of his theories coming up pleasant. He chooses not to think about it, taking a cue from Simon himself. 

It’d been another late conversation topic, how Simon tries not to think about certain things that he can’t help, or things he can’t have. It illuminates some of Simon’s secrets, brings sense to his habit of breathing in pattern, to his routine of listing things in order. 

The more he learns, the more his heart breaks. The more his feelings shift and change into something bigger than he’s used to. His heart feels full, occupied by Simon even when he’s not around. When he is, it’s like being able to breathe again, no matter what they’re doing. 

Wellbelove says the feeling is concern, like losing your child in a crowded market. She’d also added that Baz might just miss him, but it’s such a foreign concept to him that he rejects it.

Right now, Simon’s occupying the counter across from the stovetop, idly fiddling with the ring on his pinky. Sometimes, when he falls asleep in the middle of a conversation, his fingers move to it and don’t let go even when his breathing evens out. 

“How much longer?” He asks, voice coming out paper thin. It’s been a week since the disk was turned into the department, a week of awed praise from his coworkers and stealing glances towards Wellbelove for reassurance when he needs it during particularly grueling question sessions. 

“Not much. He’s not in custody yet though.”

Simon looks pensive for a moment, before his face clears and he sighs, eyes flicking up to Baz’s. 

“And when will I have to…” 

“Soon. Not yet. Not until he’s in court. But soon.”

He sighs again, head falling back against the cupboard. His nod is slight, like the tremor in his hands, but Baz catches both. He’s never been surprised by his observant nature, but the focus of it being Simon has caught him off guard more than once. 

He moves forward slowly, desperate to break the wall that Simon’s building around himself. He gets a look in his eyes when he’s thinking about something he’d rather not, and Baz can see it now, even in the dim light of the kitchen. 

“Simon?” 

“Fine,” he says, too fast for there to be any truth behind it. He’s been running himself ragged in his own head recently, worried for what’s to come. 

“I can see if they’d let you testify over video?” Baz offers. It’d take magical coercion for them to even consider it though. He wonders how far his magic could cover to that extent, mentally calculating the amount of people he’d be influencing. 

The repercussions of doing it would be severe, if anyone found out. When Simon wraps his arms around Baz’s neck and buries his shaking hands in his hair, he knows that he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

“No, just a bit. Worried,” he sighs, and Baz loops his arms around his waist, gripping his hips to pull him closer. Simon pulls back with a startled laugh, looking into Baz’s eyes for a second before he leans down to press a kiss to Baz’s cheek. 

Content, Baz moves away to tend to the stove, grabbing the buttered toast and pouring honey and black pepper on top before he places it back on the stove to fry. Simon frowns but leans back, a question sparkling over the worry in his eyes. 

“You’re trying to poison me, aren’t you?” He jokes, only a bit of seriousness to it. They’ve developed a sense of trust, mostly out of necessity to survive together, but it stuck all the same. It’s shaky though, Baz can tell. The foundations of it crumble, when neither of them can help it. 

Simon eyes some of Baz’s things for too long. Baz watches him calculate their worth and wonders why else Simon would bother with him. 

For every dark thought, there are lighter ones, ones that follow Simon’s bright eyes and brighter smiles. His trust is blatant in the lines of his face, the uncareful way he approaches Baz and walks around the flat like he knows he’s welcome. 

“Of course. Why would I want you around?” He mumbles, like Simon’s being stupid. He grins in response, eyes shining with mirth and mischief. 

The sight nearly makes Baz sigh. 

**_Simon_ **

Once they finish eating, Baz drops back down on the couch, taking one look at the sprawled papers and putting them neatly to the side. 

Simon stretches out on the floor in front of him, flushing under the intensity of Baz’s stare. 

“That was surprisingly really good,” he admits. “Also surprisingly, not poisonous.”

“It’ll kick in later,” Baz says nonchalantly, forcing another bark of a laugh from Simon’s chest. Sleepiness returns almost immediately, and he sinks further into the plush carpet under his body. 

“You ate it too, stupid,” Simon laughs, and Baz scoffs at him, a rare, soft grin curving along his face. 

“Stupid?” He asks, lowering himself onto the floor next to Simon and turning to face him. Simon feels his face heat at the attention. “That’s new.” 

“Sorry,” Simon says weakly, as he shifts closer. Neither of them makes a move to get any closer after that, and Simon’s content just to be this close, to feel content for once. Too sleepy to worry about the rest of the world, and everything else they have to deal with. 

It must show on his face because the humor in Baz’s face leaks out, replaced by a soft look. To anyone else, it’d look like pity. Simon views it as understanding now, after trading truths for so many late nights and early mornings. 

“What are you thinking?” Baz asks in a hushed voice. His hand wanders to Simon’s hair, and he tugs gently on the strands to untangle them. 

“Trying not to,” he mumbles, yawning wide as sleep continues to wash over him. 

“You need a therapist, Simon,” Baz says drily, and it turns the yawn into a wheeze of a giggle.

“Yeah. Fuckin’ probably. Don’t wanna think about that either though.” 

Baz’s face changes again, blocked up over his expression. Simon can’t place his finger on what he said to cause the retreat, but he’s only half bothered in the haze of his exhaustion. 

It happens more than he’d like to admit. The retreat, the bricked up wall in front of emotion on Baz’s face. They fall into a natural antagonism, picking at sore spots and wounds in defense of their own vulnerabilities. 

As natural as it feels, Simon finds that he hates it. It’s going to take time to break the habit, probably. He hopes they learn to talk about it instead of keeping up this pattern. 

“I’m trying,” he murmurs into the space between them, and it chips away at Baz’s shield.

“What?” 

“This. Nothing is easy,” Simon says, rolling onto his back and letting his eyes flutter closed. “You’re making it seem so simple.”

Even with his eyes closed, he can feel Baz’s stare boring holes into his face. “What are you talking about, Simon?” 

For once, Baz can’t read between the lines that he’s drawing. Simon can’t tell whether that makes it more difficult to speak or not, but before he can decide, his mind settles on the most right thing he can say. 

“Just. This whole thing is supposed to be _easy_ ,” he says, dragging a restless hand through his hair. “And it’s not. You just. You make it easy? I don’t-”

**_Baz_ **

His voice trails off helplessly, vacating the hushed space just as quickly as it filled it. Baz is confused, mind running to try and fill in the gaps that Simon’s leaving in his statement. 

“I just. Thank you. For making it simple, and for guiding me to the right thing. But I just need help, on other things. Not this,” he continues, and Baz feels himself falling even further from understanding. 

Simon makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, as Baz opens his mouth to ask. 

“I don’t want to fight. I don’t like arguing with you. I don’t like this thing where we argue and I say mean things and you say them back and then we settle down.”

Oh. 

He’s silent now, breath heaving with the effort to control himself. His voice dips and swims hazily, a testament to how tired he is. It’s nearing five a.m. already, so Baz isn’t entirely surprised. 

“What are you asking me, then?” Baz asks after a moment, because he doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Simon’s drawing up lines in front of him, setting boundaries so fast that Baz has no idea where to go. But he’s more willing than Simon knows. 

“Just. I don’t know. I don’t want to keep getting frustrated so easily. I hate that my first instinct is to be cruel to you. I can’t help being defensive,” he mutters, and finally, it clicks.   
  


“Everyone gets frustrated, Simon, that’s normal.”

“I _hate_ it,” he repeats, as he twists around again to meet Baz’s eyes. 

“So we talk about it,” Baz says, slowly, carefully. He focuses his gaze, sharpens it so Simon can see all of his intent, all the honesty there. 

**_Simon_ **

His blank mask is up, covering everything important, but he’s still honest. It’s in his eyes.

  
  


**_Baz_ **

“We’ll talk. Figure this out. Boundaries, and I’ll help you with the bad days. It _can_ be really simple, Simon. It takes time.”

It’s the spiel his therapist gives him on particularly rough days, the one that lights up skeptic warning flags in his mind, but as the words sink in, Simon seems to relax.

“Time,” he says, voice shuddering heavily through his mocking tone. His worries are poorly concealed beneath his voice, but Baz can pinpoint the moment the tension releases him. He takes slow, steadying breaths in that desperate pattern, and shifts only a bit before Baz takes the hint and wraps him up in his arms. 

“It gets easier. Give yourself some credit, you nightmare. You’ve been living under a rock for your whole life. Literally.”

Simon huffs out a damp laugh in the hollow of Baz’s neck, pressing his face further in. 

“Nightmare,” he repeats, voice lilting upwards in an imitation of a question. “There’s another new insult.”

“You plague my dreams,” Baz says quietly. His voice is the direct opposite to his apathetic expression, soft and dull, and Simon catches it, grinning into Baz's neck. 

“ _You’re_ a dream,” Simon says back, challenge in his tone even though he won’t meet Baz’s eyes. Baz doesn't dignify him with a response, though he's sure Simon can feel his heart beating furiously against his chest.

Simon falls asleep only a while after that, and Baz stays awake long enough to watch the sun rise filter in through the window. The spreading array of colors, he notes, looks dull compared to the image of Simon asleep in his arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello y'all , this is the second to last chapter of ita !!! it's insane to me that i've actually gotten to the end (i had no plans of resuming this work but couldn't quite stay away)
> 
> i have two w.i.p's coming soon, so please spare me for the shorter chapter. also, check out my tumblr concerning my latest post, where i'm collaborating with two AMAZING artists to help with the BLM Movement. it would mean the world to me if y'all helped out a bit <3
> 
> and as always, thank you so much for the love and support on this. your encouragements keep me going , all the time, and i am very thankful <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon's got one last ghost to deal with. Maybe they'll always be there, but he'll have dealt with them all, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter y'all ! aaa it's the end wowowow

**_Simon_ **

Time passes slower than before after that. Simon’s thoughts swirl through his mind all day just to empty out with no resolution; water down a sink drain with no use for it. 

All he has now is Baz, and books, and time. Each of those things is equally exciting and terrifying, and each of them seem endless. He spends his mornings reading, waking up an hour before Baz does and picking something new off his bookcase, then spends his evenings discussing it when Baz gets home again. 

When the flat starts to change into  _ home _ in his head, his thoughts screech to a startling halt. It’s like the wind whipping color from the world, stripping everything Simon’s known home to be and reducing it to a flat full of books and time, and a man who holds Simon through the worst of it. It's not a bad reduction - Simon prefers it to sleeping underground and carrying a heart heavy with guilt as he empties his heavier pockets. But it's different enough to disorient him, on most days. 

The world crashes to a halt when Baz leaves the television on one morning, after rushing out the door in a rare late-for-work occurrence where he’d spent more time explaining the more complicated details of the case to Simon. 

Simon finally wanders out of the bedroom when the sun starts burning through the window, catching sight of the flickering screen and reaching for the remote immediately before he sees a flash of his name run across the screen, followed by a news announcement. 

The headline reads:  _ Simon Salisbury - Innocent Pawn in a Deadly Game? _

It disappears and changes into a view of a woman sitting at a desk, wearing bright pink lipstick. Her frown distorts his face into a sad expression, but the gleeful expression in her eyes is unmistakable. His life is about to be laid out, rippled by whatever information they’ve gathered, and she's excited about it. 

  
Simon presses his hands to the sides of his head, silently hoping that Baz hasn’t given up the intimate details that Simon gave him, whispered words traded between kisses, teary mumbles and coaxed confessions. The dull pain in his chest clenches into a sharp one when he catches sight of Mr. Salisbury being led from his home, head down and eyes on his feet. 

Simon sees the sharp curve of his scornful mouth and runs to the restroom, barely managing to collapse in front of the toilet before he heaves, sick sobs being wrenched from his throat at the sight. It won’t leave his head, even though he can feel his magic pulsing off of him in thick, rolling waves. 

When he stops retching long enough to pull his face from the toilet, he notices the sound of the television has stopped, and when he gets up to check, the screen is black. There are thin, spiderweb pattern cracks extending from the outer part, and the sound of something in the kitchen makes him flinch into stillness. 

  
  


**_Baz_ **

The moment he’d walked into the office, he’d known. Wellbelove had been there, sitting at his desk and fiddling with the edge of a notepad and avoiding his eyes even when she saw him walk in. He’s taken care to avoid Salisbury so he won’t kill him as soon as he steps into the room with him, but he can’t help the way his rage burns through him now, at the sight of her hiding something. 

“What happened?” He’d grit out, and she forced her eyes up to his. They were carefully blank, guarded in the way that Baz taught her to be in court to avoid looking vulnerable. To have seen her applying it with him made him even angrier. 

“Reporters found out about the arrest today,” she’d started, already shooting a hand out to wrap around his wrist before he could blow through the door. “Basil, please. You’ll make it worse.”

“I’m going home,” he’d snarled back at her, wrenching his arm free and throwing her a softer, apologetic look to make up for his sudden outburst. The guilt had made a full appearance on her face, burning through the empty layers she’d put up to hide the truth. 

  
By the time she brought up damage control, Baz was already shutting the door behind him, ignoring the curious looks from the other detectives in the vicinity. He races to his car and heads home as soon as possible, placing his mobile on the dash to catch up on the latest news reports. 

He steps inside to the sound of the booming television, to the sound of Simon heaving in the bathroom adjacent to the living room, before it turns off with a pop. It cracks along the edges and Baz curses under his breath, moving to the kitchen and placing his hands on the counter to stay upright when a stream of Simon’s magic moves through the air. 

He pauses for a moment to catch his breath, and the sound of footsteps forces his heavy head up. Simon stands in the doorway, looking tense and pale. They stand there for a moment, sharing bated breaths and silence before Simon speaks. 

“Saw the news,” he says casually, but his voice wavers and his lips press together so hard they go white.

Baz’s anger flares at his feigned casualty, and Simon recoils at his lack of control. 

“I don’t know how it got out,” Baz says tightly, teeth clenched so hard that his jaw starts to ache from the force of it. Simon touches his jaw carefully, until he forces himself to relax, focusing instead on the distance between them. 

“Baz,” he says softly, and there are tears in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back, defeated. His shoulders drop, all the tension in them spilling out onto the floor. 

“It’s not your fault,” Simon shrugs, eyes soft and worried. It centers Baz’s thoughts then, and he realizes how selfish he’s being. How the tight lines of Simon’s body have only tensed more since Baz started speaking, how his voice has faded out into a bare rasp. 

“Are you alright?” Baz asks. Playing stupid so Simon won’t feel too read to be vulnerable. Their careful balance consists of crossed wires and tangled traps, words becoming barbed if they’re misunderstood. He has to act obtuse for Simon to feel fine revealing things, has to pretend that the answers aren’t already spread out there on his face. 

Baz hasn’t laid down any boundaries, but somehow Simon cleans up the mess he makes of them as soon as he crosses. He’s nearly unreal in his resilience, in just how  _ good _ he is, even if he’s not perfect. It makes him tangible, makes it possible for Baz to reach for him and feel like he’s stitching together instead of tearing apart.

Simon says he’s not alright with the shake in his hands, his shoulders, and the deep, heaving breaths he takes. He collapses into Baz’s arms and tries to be, though. And that’s enough, for all the time they have after this storm passes. Things get better each day. But right now, tucked tightly in their embrace, neither of them quite believes it. 

  
  


**_Simon_ **

He has two weeks before the trial. Two weeks to spend rehearsing the details that he’s already memorized. The mannerisms that Agatha’s spent drilling into his body language aren’t faked anymore - it seems like sometimes he spends more time stuttering than he has all his life. Shaking comes with the thoughts of it, automatically. Most days, he can barely pull back the tears before they fall. 

They’ve prepared all the information against him. All Simon has to do is speak out.

He’s not sure how he’s going to do that anymore. Anytime he tries, he finds himself fraying. 

It’s hard to be sure of anything anymore. Baz brought up school, college and all that to help Simon get back on his feet. He said he’d check it out, ignoring the rare hopeful spark in Baz’s eyes as he left for work in the morning. 

As soon as the door had fallen shut, he locked himself in the bathroom to sink to the floor and breathe, pressing his cheek to the gleaming cold tiles. Nothing is easy. Not that he expected it to be, but books aren’t enough to make a life, and neither are his feelings. And he’s running out of time now until the trial. Slowly, the things that made sense start to become routine, less novelty and more things to pass the time he doesn't have.

Each day is a sharp blur of colors and noise, of talking and looking but never really processing any of it. Baz is starting to catch onto the fact that Simon sometimes spaces out and doesn’t really regain his senses until a few hours later. His eyes have grown dull and concerned, the antithesis to the blankness in Simon’s own when he looks in the mirror. 

It used to terrify him, running out of time, running from the truth, and from his own reflection. Now, he’s too tired to be scared of much of anything. His worry for the upcoming days has turned his stomach into an echoing chamber, his eyes into a faded, blue canvas. 

When he looks in the mirror sometimes, he flinches away from the death he sees staring back at him. 

On the first day of the last week before the trial, Baz leaves the number to his therapist in plain sight before he leaves for work. On the day after that, Simon wanders out to the garden in the backyard, more cement than foliage in the area. He doesn’t even realize that he’s locked himself outside until Baz comes home to find him. The arch in his eyebrow did nothing to hide his worry, enough concern for Simon to drown in it. They don't talk about it because Simon didn't even notice that he'd been outside for hours, and Baz didn't know how to take that. 

The days after that pass in a blur of panic and so much noise in his mind that he can’t recall a single detail to Baz when he comes home that night. It’s another silent scene, one where Baz runs out of falsely cheerful anecdotes or grumbled complaints to share and they end up facing each other in silence, just breathing. 

Simon can feel it without the words being said - on those nights, Baz stares at him like he can’t figure him out. On those nights, he’s silently asking where they lie, whether Simon’s okay, whether anything’s going to be okay. It's a question for the both of them.

All he can do is be better the next day. All he can do is reach his hand across the gap and place a hand on Baz’s cheek to ease the tight line of his mouth, the frustrated set to his brow. 

The next day is better, and the one after that is worse again. The morning of the trial, Simon is filled with something dangerous humming in his chest, like unruly birds trying to fly. His thoughts are filled with the same feeling - loose, panicked flight in every corner of his mind.

He names the feeling in his chest hope and decides he’s quite fond of it, smiling at the thought despite the panic coursing through his bloodstream as his thoughts accumulate. He lets the mood carry him out of bed an hour early, even though he usually waits for Baz to come looking for him. The kitchen isn’t empty though, like it usually is this early in the morning.

Baz is shuffling around lazily, spooning coffee grounds into a thermos with his eyes half shut. Simon’s not sure he’s entirely awake, especially when he watches as the creamer spills halfway into the mug and onto the counter. 

“What time did you fall asleep?” Simon asks, rubbing his eyes against the bright sunlight and stifling a heavy yawn into his other fist. 

Baz jerks when he hears Simon’s voice, but his eyes stay closed.

“You didn’t, did you?”

Baz replies with a noncommittal hum before turning back to the task at hand. He opens his eyes fully, staring down at the puddle of creamer and turning to blink blankly at Simon, like he’s wondering where the mess came from. 

Simon can’t help the laugh that falls from his mouth, pushed out by the rare instance of hope and pulled by the sight of Baz looking ridiculous. He relishes in the good feeling, allows himself to be helpless to its tide, just to salvage it in his memories. 

When he wakes up one day, years from now, he’ll hope to remember this day more for the sweet, simple morning it gave him rather than the bitter memory he’ll make later. Baz waves lazily at him, probably seeing the dark look cross his face.

Simon huffs another laugh and walks over, taking the carton of creamer and pouring in a copious amount, the way he likes it. He grabs the sugar jar and a comically large spoon, tipping in two spoonfuls and cringing at the way Baz seems to lean towards the coffee now that it’s palatable. 

**_Baz_ **

He gulps down about half the mug before he even manages to open his eyes, but once he does, they’re aimed at Simon. 

“How are you,” he mumbles, searching for a hint of collapse in Simon’s expression. The curve of his lip distracts Baz long enough to look down at his mouth to catch the smile, and by the time he looks up again, whatever was lighting Simon’s gaze is gone. 

“Fine,” Simon responds slowly, after a moment. He leans against the counter and tilts his face to the ceiling, and his eyes stay wide open. Uncharacteristic. Baz wonders which edge of himself Simon is letting show through today. The sides of him are softer, teary eyed and softer spoken. His edges are all bright and loud, arguments and happy outbursts alike.

This bright eyed, laughing creature is an edge to the whole of Simon Snow. He’s all Snow today, not a trace of Salisbury in him. Baz thought he'd never see him like this again. 

Baz is all too acquainted with the man facing his sentencing in court today. Salisbury is all snarling defensiveness, shit magic tricks, and denial to last him until the day he dies. The second he’d had his wand removed - by Baz, because he’s the only one who knew it was on him - he’d gone powerless and angry. 

It'd reminded him of Simon back in the desert, when he was playing his part. Hurt, unable to move, but threatening all the same. When he'd looked the most like his name and the least like himself. 

“Slept well,” he continues, breaking Baz from his thoughts. He studies him warily, careful not to be too intent so as not to disturb what may just be an illusion. Simon peers back unabashedly, eyes so impossibly blue, it must be magic. 

“Good,” Baz says simply, overwhelmed by the tightness in his chest all of a sudden. 

“Good,” Simon mocks, and Baz steps into his space just to watch his mouth fall open the slightest bit, the way it does when he’s surprised. 

“I’m…” This is the difficult part.  _ Communication _ , he’s said, with a surety that eludes him now. “I’m worried for you,” he tries, watching as the words land and Simon’s expression loses just an inch of that easiness. 

“I know,” Simon says softly, then he repeats it even softer and lets the first cracks in his feelings shine through. Baz presses his hand harder into his mug to soak up some of the heat, then presses his warm hand against Simon’s cheek. He leans into it, eyes going soft at the edges with sadness. 

“It hurts, only a bit though,” he mumbles. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything else. It’s going to be okay, though.”

“Is it?” Simon asks, voice wobbling as he leans even closer. His eyes shut and a tear rolls down his cheek. “No, _no_. It is okay. This is next and then all I have to do is get through… the rest.”

Baz snorts, feeling guilty, but unable to regret it when the sound finally snaps Simon back into focus. “Way to simplify the rest of your life, Simon.” 

He opens his eyes and frowns, but a little pathetic laugh spills out of him anyway. “Yeah. It works, no?.”   
  


“I know,” Baz whispers, feeling something in his chest crack when Simon smiles through his tears. 

They finish their coffee and Baz sorts through his things while Simon dresses in the grey suit he’s shoved to the back of his closet. It’s a bit tight around the shoulders and hangs off his legs loosely, but otherwise, it’s perfect. Baz feels a bit ashamed to stare, like he’s witnessing someone dress for the runway headed to death row. 

Simon certainly looks somber enough for it. Any hope shining brightly in his eyes has gone completely out, soaked in worry and fear. His face is open, more than any other time Baz has seen him, and his eyes widen nearly imperceptibly each time he breathes in harshly, like he can't believe he's able to.

They meet eyes in the mirror and don’t speak, not as they’re walking out the door, or as they enter the car. Wellbelove kept the reporters away with an anonymous tip, misleading them to a hotel where Simon Salisbury was allegedly staying. He’s about to bring it up to Simon to mock the situation, but decides against it when he catches sight of the tight way he’s holding on to his knee. 

Baz offers his hand silently and Simon accepts, tangling their fingers and pulling their conjoined hands to his mouth. He mumbles something unintelligible against Baz’s knuckles, lips brushing softly over the skin, then drops them back to his lap. 

  
  


**_Simon_ **

Everything is silent and calm until it isn’t. His expectations are nothing like the truth, though. Where he imagined a tidal wave comes a roaring flood, tearing through him with noise and blinding white flashes, and a million different questions.

Agatha had explained it to him on one of his bad days earlier in the week. The words only barely swim into his mind now, as he processes what she said. _“For legal purposes, they are going to refer to you by Simon Salisbury. You’re going to have to be okay with that, and then if everything falls through, you can have it legally changed to Snow.”_

It’s still disorienting every time he hears the name thrown out at him. At first, his head whips wildly when he hears it, worry clouding his mind at the thought that maybe Mr. Salisbury is out here, waiting for him to stop being foolish. To come home. 

And then Baz grounds him with a hand on his back and Simon replaces the panic with sadness, letting each question roll over him and slowly crush him. He doesn’t answer any of them. He’s going to use all his words on the stand, say everything he needs to, and everything he couldn’t. Even if it kills him. 

He thinks that maybe it might.

-

In the end, everything he’s known since he was younger is dismantled in a matter of three hours. He remembers bits and pieces, flashes of color and strange hairstyles or pronunciations. He remembers being asked to answer questions and doing so, of everyone looking at him kindly while Agatha kept her eyes on the jury. 

He remembers speaking so much that his mouth goes numb, and his voice fades. If he’d looked at Mr. Salisbury even once to gauge his reaction, he’s sure that he’d remember that the most, but he didn’t spare a single glance. 

The car ride home is just as silent as it was before, though the tension holding his body up left so abruptly, Simon wonders why it was even there in the first place. 

Baz looks relieved, mostly. But he won’t stop glancing at Simon, and he won’t let go of his hand. It feels like a tether. 

-

In the end, life doesn’t move on like he thought it would. 

It does _move_ \- even on the days that Simon doesn’t move with it. But it hasn’t been simple since it really started. 

He has habits to break, ghosts to bury, nightmares to interrupt any good night’s sleep. 

He has a watchful gaze on him most of the time, concern pressed into careful hands and gentle kisses. He’s got Penny, fussing over him incessantly and still gaping at him in awe sometimes over not having figured it out sooner. He still meets her once a week, at the same shop. She presses him for answers to questions and then looks guilty about it, swearing that she'll try to stop. Sometimes, she just stares with something like pity in her eyes. He knows the expression because of how often he sees it now. 

He can’t say that he’s recovered, or that life is easy. But it’s certainly _easier_. He has more to keep now than he ever did back then. He’s registered for online courses after filling out a mostly truthful application, and he’s going to  _ try _ .

So, Simon is still haunted by the faces of those he’s taken from, in that split second of fear before they were charmed out of it. He still wakes from nightmares and takes deep gulping breaths like he’s underground again. Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, he sees Mr. Salisbury instead of himself. Sometimes he can't sleep alone, and other times, he can't stand the thought of dragging Baz down with him. 

Baz says that the truth brought clarity, but hasn't done much for his rage. It was a rare truth, admitted mostly because Simon was insistent on a good day, and neither of them wanted an argument about it. Peace doesn’t make up for the lost years, for all his anger. He has nightmares, and he misses his mother every day, even if he won’t always admit that it’s the thing making his face hollow. They walk a thin line and have silent stretches after cold arguments, but they have each other. 

It’s better than a dream, because even if there’s hurt, and they spend most days trying to be better than the day before, it’s  _ real _ . Realer than anything either of them have had. 

Simon’s never really had anything to keep before, except for Baz. He's the first thing that’s ever really _belonged_ to him, and he’s not about to let go, now or ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY WOW 
> 
> this is the official end of into thin air ! it's been absolutely insane working on it for nearly a year. i am in shock that i finished lol
> 
> there are mediocre chapters, there are god awful chapters (that i may or may not go back to edit now that i can), and there are chapters that i am intensely proud of it. i would hope that overall, y'all enjoy every single one of them. 
> 
> finally, thankyouthankyouthankyou to every single person who's ever supported this in any way. whether you left kudos, raved about it to one of your friends, or left a paragraph of a comment, i cannot stress just how thankful i am for it. it was encouragement that kept me running even when i wanted to scrap the whole thing. 
> 
> my next w.i.p is coming soon ! stay tuned for that <3


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